then he says things like:
“My cock is hard because of how beautiful you are, baby. Every inch of you is beauty to me. Every inch of you is gorgeous. I love your body, Fatal. You are what brings me pleasure. You’re everything that makes me so fucking hard. I want you to know how much I need your body. I want you to love that knowledge.”
And I can feel it all chipping away slowly, like it was never there to begin with.
It’s not gone, not by half. But he worries at it like a dog at a bone. Never letting me feel like I am less than, like I am not beautiful and worthy and anything short of a goddess.
And though his words do not negate the years of inner torment that I have faced at my own hands, they make me feel… for moments, in those moments, that I am those things that he says: beautiful, gorgeous, desirable.
That I am worth… being wanted, pursued, loved.