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it makes you blush when you think about how strong your f/o is. they can pick you up without breaking a sweat. throw you over their shoulder like its nothing. pin your wrists down with an iron grip. you couldn’t even try to fight back. not like you want to, anyway.
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you can always tell when your f/o is in the mood because they get quiet, and incredibly handsy. a hand sliding around your waist, hugging you from behind, their body so very close to yours.
their fingers pressing into your flesh, a hand grabbing your arm and moving you to where they want you to be.
a hand on the back of your neck, holding you still as they kiss you, other one grabbing you and feeling you in any way they can.
your f/o sneaking into your room while you’re fast asleep. they know it’s wrong- just can’t stop themselves, though.
lifting up your shirt and touching your soft skin while your chest rises and falls, utterly oblivious to what’s going on.
unbuttoning your pants and touching between your legs, glancing up at your sleeping face. they don’t know what would be better- seeing your reaction as your eyes flutter open, or relishing in your soft noises as you remain asleep.
coming to terms with the fact that you really are your f/o’s now. the collar on your neck that was there when you woke up for the first time. the dog cage filled with blankets thats big enough for you to sleep in. the remote control they hold that can shock you when you misbehave.
maybe it’s not so bad though, you tell yourself. the time outside you get when you’re good. the treats your f/o buys, just for you. the time and attention they put into caring for you.
no one else could love you like they could.
you’ve been bad for long enough. immature. insolent. you and your f/o know both it can’t go unpunished.
their foot reels back to kick you in the chest, landing a hard blow right on your ribs. you flinch in a ball on the floor, lungs heaving to try and catch air. they don’t let you recover, picking your head up from the floor with a grip in your hair, other hand punching you clean across the face. you taste iron in your mouth.
“almost done, i promise. i wouldn’t have to do this if you were good for me.”
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admiring the bruises that your f/o gives you. seeing the fist sized marks on your arm, your legs, your torso, some purple and red, some starting to yellow and fade. some smaller, some bigger, in clusters.
pressing them just so you can feel the ache- being reminded of how it felt when you got them. wearing shorter clothes just so you can see them.
absentmindedly tracing your finger around 2 bruises that look strangely heart shaped.
even if they fade and go away, you know there’ll be new ones to replace them <3
your f/o making sure you understand when you mess up. words coming out from clenched teeth inbetween every single kick that lands on your curled up form. ‘know your place.’
they say, grabbing your hair and yanking you up to face them.
that bloody nose and bruised rib is more than enough to reflect on your actions with. or maybe they just like seeing you flustered and bleeding.
