He wants to protect me and fuck me until he hurts me. He’s at peace with this contradiction.
He’s smart and kind and cares about the world.
His type is a princess who’s also his personal pornstar. He’s confident that I’m the right girl for the job.
He notices when I’m cold, when I’m quiet, when my eyes fall and the fatigue is overwhelming. He gives me his sweater and asks what’s on my mind and tells me to lay down, holds me as we rest. He notices when my pupils grow and my breathing quickens, when my hips start to sway; when I need to be used.
He knows I believe in him.
He pushes my boundaries, makes me imagine depraved scenarios that have never crossed my mind before.
He thinks about me often.
He doesn’t always have it perfectly together, but he does his best. Life is hard. We try. We figure things out together.
He’s experienced and well-traveled. He can teach me things.
He never lets me leave him without a few bruises.
He sees that I choose him. He doesn’t take that for granted.
He hurts me, marks me, makes me beg and cry. He loves it. Needs it. He understands my masochism, my cravings, in a deep way because his cravings complement mine.
He’s never more turned on than when he’s around me. He sometimes looks at me like I make him crazy. Maybe I do.
He trusts me with the important things. He tells me when he’s had a challenging day and could use support.
He’d keep me in his cellar if he could, playing with me, using me, fucking with my mind until I was more pet than person.
He laughs easily when we’re together and when we’re not, he sends me things that make him laugh.
He likes the way other men look at me, knowing they want me but can’t have me. Knowing they’ll never touch me, never control me, never see me the way he does. Knowing they can only imagine what he has.
He knows what I’ve been through and wants my life to be better. He wants me to feel better.
He cums deep inside of me and makes me clean him up with my tongue, licking up any that might have made it to the floor.
He apologizes when he’s wrong, makes changes. I do the same. We address any bumps that come up and move on.
He has a minor obsession with my brain, my body. I can feel his desire for me in his words, in the way he touches me; he makes me feel wanted and he can feel how much I want him. We don’t question where we stand with each other.
He reads everything I write. He asks me questions about my pieces. He gives me feedback and tells me his favorites.
He fantasizes about keeping me caged; brainwashed and conditioned, trained for him. Just another one of his belongings. A pretty decoration with an attentive tongue.
He fights for me in the way you fight for something precious you want to hold onto.
He knows how to touch me, how to wrap his hand around my throat in just the right way. How to make me shiver under him. How to make me ache with just the palm of his hand.
He loves the way I touch him. He cherishes it.
He knows that I’ve been hurt. He’s gentle with my wounds the way I’m gentle with his.
He understands my humor.
He’s degrading and cruel. He doesn’t let me forget that my place is on my knees at his feet.
He’s honest. He wants me to feel safe with him.
He’s possessive. He looks at me and feels, “Mine.” Feels, because it’s more instinct than conscious thought.
He likes that I’m sore for days after he uses me; the way my pussy stays warm and wet and stretches around his big cock.
He knows our connection is profound and rare.
He sometimes texts me good morning and good night just because. He makes plans that we both look forward to. He calls me baby when he’s not calling me his fucktoy.
He’s loyal in the ways that count.
He has great taste in collars (and better taste in subs).
