He’s not for everyone; I get that. He’s got depraved fantasies, and he wants to hurt me, to make me beg and plead and cry. He likes when he locks me up and edges me to the point of sobbing. The more my body twitches and spasms, the brighter the red blooms on my skin where he bites or lashes me, the happier he is.
But that stuff makes me happy, too.
There’s nothing better than the feeling of utter helplessness that consumes you while a man you trust more than life itself looms overhead, masked and untouchable, swearing he’ll make you break and then promising to put you back together again.
And there’s nothing better than when he does exactly that. Shatters you a thousand times over, then unlocks you from your cuffs or collar and pulls you into his arms to whisper tender sweet nothings in
