There’s something about being on my knees for him that unravels me in all the right ways. It starts with the look—when he tilts my chin up and his eyes soften, even as he calls me his needy little bitch. That mix of control and care does something to me. It doesn’t feel like being humiliated. It feels like being seen. Like I’m being ruined in the exact way I want to be, and held through it.

When my hands are bound behind me, there’s nothing I can do but stay there, still and waiting. And I want to be there. I want to lean into his palm like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground. It’s not about weakness—it’s about trust. That’s where I feel safe. That’s where I feel wanted. Not just used, but chosen. Not just craved, but kept.

Even in the dirtiest moments, there’s something tender in the way he sees me. He doesn’t look away when I break. He drinks it in like it’s beautiful. Like I’m beautiful.