To the One Who Owns Me

There are things I can only express when I’m quiet— when I’m kneeling in my mind, hands behind my back, body aching for your touch, your voice, your control. I don’t just want to be used by you. I want to be seen by you— in all the ways that scare me, in all the ways that make me feel real. You strip the noise from my head the moment you take over. When your hand closes around my throat, or your rope winds tight across my chest, I stop performing. I stop pretending. I become honest. The world falls away, and all that’s left is you— your breath in my ear, your grip on my body, your orders shaping my every move. I crave it. The sting of discipline. The way pain hums into pleasure until I can’t tell the difference. The ache of being denied, the desperation of begging with my eyes, the feeling of being owned—not out of weakness, but because I chose you to take what I can’t carry alone. I need to be used. Held down. Tied up. Pushed past the limits I pretend I have. I need to feel your control, to know I’ve pleased you, to hear your approval laced with filth and pride. I want your marks on me— not just the bruises, but the claim. Something only we understand. Something that says: this one is mine. Because I am. Every inch of me. Every sound I make, every part that aches, every thought that spirals into need— it’s all yours. So take me. Push me. Make me into whatever you want. Break me open with your hands, and then hold me like you always do— as if I’m exactly where I belong. Because with you, I am. Yours, --Your submissive