Photo by Dainis Graveris

Everything is going wrong lately. No matter what she does, everything is going wrong. She is thrown out into the ocean, so far from the shore. She doesn’t know how to swim, and she is drowning. (Imagine that—a Pisces who can’t swim!) She keeps on kicking and trying and flailing her arms, but she is unable to save herself. She thinks, nobody here is to save me.

Suddenly she misses him fiercely, so fiercely. Out in the water, the cold is wrapping itself around her body and her mind tries so very hard to fight back, but everything is against her. Losing a job. Losing a loved one. Losing herself. Losing her mind. For a moment, she saw the beauty of it, this thing that could kill her, and suddenly she wanted so badly to meet it, to embrace it, to go away with it and never return.

But she is jolted back to violence, to things spiraling out of control, to a series of unfortunate events that she has no power over.

She cries a lot. Yes, she’s a mega crier. Why can’t I be like other women, she often hears herself say sadly. Women who never cried. Women who can tell people to fuck off and mean it. 

Times she’s cried:

  • When dogs die in the movies
  • When someone else cries in front of her
  • When she’s given an unexpected gift
  • When someone hurls hurtful words her way
  • When she’s very angry and loses her language
  • When she sits outside and the moon is perfect and there are no clouds
  • When she thinks about what else she could have done
  • When she believes she is not worth it, nor worth a lot
  • When Pavarotti sings
  • When Max Richter plays
  • When she sees a tender gesture, like knuckles on a cheek, or a hand on the small of a back, or a tiny kiss on the corner of a mouth
  • When her wrists hurt
  • When she eats hot soup on a cold day when her joints ache and she is feeling sick
  • When she has a nightmare
  • When she is told she is a good girl

Yes, she’s a fucking crier and she knows this always makes her look like an idiot. She knows it’s not an attractive look on her, too. She knows it doesn’t gain her respect, especially amongst other people who think having feelings is a weakness.

Yet when the wind plays with her hair, when the sunlight kisses her toes, when he says, You’re beautiful, and when he says right after that, You’re not allowed to cum today—trust that she will take deep breaths, trying to centre her being, the tears almost to the surface.

She’s always been difficult, she knows that. And she can’t seem to make people stay. People always walk away just when she needed them the most.

She always says or does the wrong thing. Oh, yes, she’s always awkward. When she writes, the awkward girl always gets the guy—but she knows real life is different. In her head, her man will always want her, will find her awkwardness endearing, perhaps even adorable, will always need her softness.

She lives in her head most of the time, swimming with words. That is part and parcel of why he’s here, looking at her, seeing her for who she truly is. How can he tell her that he wants to protect that part of her? That he relishes her world instead of loathe it, that he wishes he can follow her to the deepest forests of her imagination, where he’ll surely find her, naked and free?

He wants to be there kneeling before her, experiencing the depths of her abandon—but he can only nurture that side of her, and herself. He wants to do the little things that will allow her to do more of what she’s meant to be doing, to let her roam her interior self and get lost, go on adventures, discover more words and worlds. And when it’s time to come back, he will be there to call her name, and the intense satisfaction he feels when she follows his voice, to resurface back again, back to him—is a heady feeling like no other, immeasurable and beyond price.

He knows she will be writing about him. For now. For always. And he will damn make sure of it—he will make it his mission to give her something to write about, but not only that, to write about him specifically, in many faces, in many bodies, in many universes.

He likes that certainty—how even while preoccupied in her head she’s thinking about him, wondering about him, mooning over him. He is her tether, and her words will tell him how she knows that she’s attached, that he is her one fixed point, that she loves him so consummately there is no end, he has never left.

Simply put, his job is her. She is the job. His responsibility is to protect and take care of his sub, his babygirl, to make sure that she is growing as a person, that her heart and soul is nurtured, and that her spirit is strong.

He also needs to keep her safe, even from herself, especially since she is very good at giving herself heartache. He loves teaching her discipline and submission—he loves the way she obeys, cherishes the way she yields. When she utters, Master, breathless and begging, it takes a lot of his strength not to mark her body with his cum.

He loves her independence and her tenacity to get things done. Her stubbornness amuses him but also endears herself to him—when she still tries despite the uncertainty, when she forges ahead knowing it can get disastrous, he wants to be there, hopeful things will go well but also excited to see how she will deal with the consequences.

He likes it when she allows, even needs him to help her. As her Daddy, he wants to be able to do things for her, too, but he can’t deny he is damn proud each time she ends up helping herself. But Lord help him if it doesn’t make his cock go hard when she comes to him for decisions, wanting to hear his opinion, believing he is making the right choices for her. Whether he’s telling her not to wear any panties for the day, or whether to stop working and get some sleep—each time she listens he wants to fuck her until she she can’t walk, until she cries, Daddy, and asks for kisses, always kisses.

She is often taking care of others. It’s no surprise that she forgets about herself. It is captivating as much as it is frustrating. She damn well needs a keeper, and he knows that person is him.

To his delight though, she has a circle of people who care about her, too, and that makes him feel good, because he knows she is not even nearly alone as she thinks she is. His little girl is loved.

He cannot stand it when she cries, or when she says bad things about herself. Whenever she thinks she’s not beautiful, all he wants to do is press his hard cock against her belly so she’ll know without a doubt that she lights his entire being on fire.

He wants to spend hours and days and weeks driving himself deep inside her, marking her womb with ropes and ropes of his cum so she’ll know she’s his. So she’ll remember that she belongs to him. He wants to drive every little hurtful memory away with something good, to make her pant with desire, to keep her thighs open and wet.

And when she gets that cadence in her voice that tells him she’s back there again, the one that makes her gaze soft and her eyes sad, he will tell her to get the paddle, and she will get ready, no questions asked. She should know by now that he will never allow her to get hurt again, especially when they are together. When she’s with him, he wants all of her—her eyes for him, her body for him, her pussy, her ass. Her mind. Her heart.

And if she dares to retreat, if for one second she even thinks of running away, because it’s easier, because she thinks it’s for the best—he will come looking.

He knows that she is not as open and not as bold in the presence of others. He knows how shy and demure she can be, sometimes too hesitant, too reluctant. But oh, how she blooms in his hand, his little flower. When she moans please please please let me cum, when she whispers spit in my mouth, he could cum right there. The satisfaction he feels knowing she is only like that for him—it’s potent, it’s heady, and worth it, so worth it, to be able to coax it out of her.

He wants her to think of nothing else but him. He wants to silence all the voices in her head that told her she wasn’t worthy. He wants her to look at her body and believe she is wanted and desired. Every god in the universe and the next help him, because he will fuck her so deep she will no longer remember what it feels like to be without him.

So yes—as long as he is here, she will never flee again. To have her never resurface would be catastrophic.

He wants her to hear him say over and over: Mine. Mine. Mine. He wants her to walk around with his seed deep inside her body, or on her. He wants her smelling of him, telling anyone who even dares that she’s taken. He is her owner—her neck looks good with his hands or a collar around it.

He knows what he wants and it’s her, in all her softness. He will lead, and she will find that deep strength in her to yield and follow.

But dammit, how she forgets sometimes. This is when he thinks about punishment. He doesn’t want to hear her belittle herself or diminish her own value, he simply will not allow it. When she pulls herself apart to pieces, he will spank that storm out of her, until her ass is red with his hand, until she truly understands that she is desired.

Because she revels in the good kind of hurt—his own little pain slut—he looks forward to the heat of her skin when her ass repeatedly meets his palm. He will make her understand that the world inside her head is not the only space where she can be herself, where she will find acceptance for who she really is.

This world out here? Yes, this shitty place with shitty people and shitty circumstances—she can be here too. She has a space, and it is right beside him. In his arms is where she truly belongs, or under his body, or on his lap, grinding on his cock. Beneath his mouth, and with his hands in her hair—that is her place. Kneeling before him with her mouth open—that is her place. Snuggled right beside him—his little spoon—that is her place. With her body trembling, her nipples in his mouth, his name on her lips—that is her place. With the neighbours hearing her moan, with his fingers inside his cunt under the table, with his teeth on her neck—that is her place.

He is the Master of her pussy and he wants her to know, deep in her marow, that she is wanted. Now and always.

T. xx

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