keilü

This is what young love is all about. Or at least that's what your brain is telling ya.

It should have never happend, really, it was your mistake. Young, free soul, some might say. You just wanted a night out, have some drinks with your friends because your part time job is ass and life is harder than it needs to be.You started light, some cocktails, a Mimosa, a Sex on the Beach, but step by step you went from light drinks to Jagermeister shots, tequila with lemon and salt, some straight Melon and your mind detach itself from rationality.

You saw him, recognized him, and wanted him. He wasn’t drinking or looking for anyone in particular, so why was he there? Why would a man like him be in such place? You would’ve asked yourself more questions, but the burning in your throat and the dizzy spin of the room pulled your eyes away from him, driven by an urgent need to find an exit. The chilly night air hit your burning hot skin in seconds and you took a moment, just to lean on the wall, hands on your knees, eyes closed.

"Ty v poryadke?"

"Does it look like I know Russian?"

You swear you can sense his smile, but you can't be sure of anything in your state.

It didn't took long for you two to end up in his hotel room. His length was impressive, and he wasn't shy about it. He fucked you like he knew you, but how would a simple waitress catch the attention of one of the biggest champions in UFC?

He made sure to use every surface in that room to fuck you just right. Laid across the table with his hand blocking your airways, jerky breathing escaping your mouth, before his fingers tangled with your tongue. On the couch, hair in his fist, stinging just enough to make you want to bend your head a little more. The floor was cold, but the thrusts of his hip made you forget all about it.

You were the one who left first, thinking it was over. You got to enjoy the company of one of the sexiest men on the planet, and now you’ll live with just the memory, and that's how it should have been. He was married. 3 beautiful kids waiting for him, eager to leap into his arms and wrap their little hands around his neck after a long time away from home. But when life gave you lemons, you chose to fuck Islam Makhachev. And now you have to pay back.

It started strong, not letting you breath for a second. First, he found out where you worked, coming to the restaurant every chance he got. The tips were always generous, and he would only ask for you, saying something about how your service is the best, as he declined every other waitress that tried to get a 250$ tip. He always tried to get your attention, and for most of the time, it worked. You pulled him outside, after he asked for the bill, demanding to know how he found out where you worked. All he did was smile, taking your wrist slowly, placing a kiss to it. You were left in shock. What does he want from you? It woken up the sleeping madness in you. He started texting you, at first, simple questions you chose to ignore but he continued. He missed you, he missed the smell of your skin, the feeling of your warm breath against his neck. He was craving something that should have never happend. The thought of your fingers trailing along his strong arms sent him into a euphoric state, like he was high on something he’d once tasted and now craved again. Your poison flowed through his veins… and you were starting to love the idea of him needing you, of him starved because of you.

It was soo much fun seeing him like that, it was soo much fun seeing someone soo powerful, waiting, hoping for a simple text from you. You kept tourmenting him, promising to show him heaven when actually, you were the shaytan itself, and e knew that. But you're breaking and making every rule anyway, so why would he try to save himself? His love for you was something most people will considerate obsession, but no, not him. Because everytime you make him helpless, haunt his dreams, eveytime you would take his breath, you will give it back, you would save him.

His desires are growing, as you maneuver him just as you please. You were out with your friends one time, just a casual get together after a long time of work and studying, when his Range Rover pulled next to the park. He entered it and came straight to you, not really caring about who is there, just eager to touch you. He kissed your knuckles and hugged you, as you laugh about something with your friends. You sat on his lap as his head was resting on your shoulders, like he was used to this, something he does out of habit.

He want back to Dagestan and you thought this is the perfect moment to make him suffer more. You ignored all his texts, answer his calls briefly then hang up, texting things about how his attention should be on his wife and kids, making him endure all of it as you forcefully fed him all that. He was struggling to keep up. All his desires and irrational thinking was let out by fighting. His heart was weak now, tourmanted by the thought of his wife and the ache in his heart caused by the intense imagine of you. The feeling of need was taboo, his throat burning down in search for your taste, head replaying scenes that are forever tattooed on his brain, it's chemistry forever altered.

You went out and see a boy, just a quick hook up, something that you will forget about, maybe even in a few hours. But he found out, of course, you don't know how, but he did. The first ticket was his, the very next flight, he was in. He came to your apartment, banging on your door soo hard that a few of your neigbhours went outside to check what the hell was going on. When you finally opened that damn door, he went on, saying something like he sculpted himself for you, that he sacrificed eveything just to have you, that you're in line with every and each one of your words, that even when he is the one who suffers, he feels like it's easier to lose himself, than to lose you. Your connected with his chest in rapidly, repeatedly movements, saying that you never agreed to this, that this is all his fault and that you have your own life. This randez-vous of yours broke you apart.

He sighs and catches your fists, stepping closer, leaning down to rest his forhead agains your shoulder, making you stop your every move, almost forgeting how to breath.

You would lie if you say that this bitchy attitude of your is on point. It's not.

Actually, you are the sculpture, foolishly thinking you had the upper hand. Anyone else would’ve walked away from this long ago, but you’re hooked, your soul bound to his forever. He has control over you.