He doesn’t ask. He never has. He takes. My body bends, breaks, opens, and I let it, because that’s the ritual we’ve carved out of each other. His dominance is not a question, it’s a command, and my only language in those moments is surrender.

His spit lands on my face, warm and humiliating, and before it even slides down my cheek he drags his tongue across it, licking it away, reclaiming me with every stroke. Tears spill from my eyes as his cock forces its way down my throat, my mouth stretched wide, my breath stolen. He tastes the tears too, mixing them with spit and sweat like it’s communion, like it’s proof I belong here, beneath him, begging for air and for him in the same breath.

I resist, sometimes. My body thrashes lightly, a push of my hands against his chest, a twist of my shoulders as if I could deny him. But it’s never real. It’s the performance we both crave, the dance of defiance that makes my eventual collapse even sweeter. He never allows refusal. He pins me, he holds me, he keeps pressing until my fight melts into a moan, until my body betrays me with the truth: I want this. I want him.

When he takes me from behind, his grip bruises my hips until I ache from it. He doesn’t ease me in, he drives himself deep, ripping through the hesitation in my muscles, forcing me to accept him whole. I shudder, gasp, push back against him, my body stretched to its limit, & still I give. Because I crave the burn of him inside me, the sting of him pushing past my edges. He fucks me until the line between pleasure and pain is gone, until I can’t tell whether I’m begging him to stop or begging for more.

He marks me in every way he can. Teeth sinking into my neck, leaving purple constellations across my skin. Fingertips digging hard enough to bloom bruises down my thighs and ass. And then the ink; the marker he drags across my skin in messy, possessive scrawls: property. His property. His body. His pussy. His ass. Words written into me like scripture, as if I need the reminder, as if the bruises weren’t enough proof.

He makes me say it, too. “Who does this pussy belong to?” And I whisper the answer he demands, even when my throat is ragged from screaming it. His. My voice breaks but he doesn’t stop until I give him every last ounce of my confession. Until he hears me beg and surrender and promise again that I am his to take, in every way he wants.

Every moment is choreographed chaos. The spit, the tears, the bruises, the marker, they aren’t accidents, they’re scripture. His hands, his cock, his voice are the verses; my submission is the chorus. He takes me hard, rough, unrelenting, and I answer with the only truth I know: I let him. I want him to.

There is no gentleness in us. No soft romance. This is darker, heavier, holier in its own savage way. His dominance is my prayer, and my obedience is his worship. I don’t question it. I don’t resist beyond the tease of resistance he loves. I give him every part of me, over and over again.

He takes me. Every time. In every way. & I crave it, like oxygen.