I collapse onto the bed. Everything moves like molasses. I feel so ancient when I am so tired. My body does not want to work any more. Sleep, it cries, Sleep, please. I crawl on elbows and knees to the head of the big bed, curl around and under and against the numerous pillows that I keep.
You follow me on your knees and slide my leggings off of my hips, down my legs, pull them gently from my toes. I mumble something. Resisting every second that I have to have my eyes open. You carefully unwind my arms from around the soft mounds of fabric and I whine, a high-pitched, mewling little whine. My eyes are closed because I cannot take the harsh light any longer.
“Turn off the lights,” I whimper.
“First, your dress.”
Your hands move under the soft, flowing fabric and you tug at it until I move and comply and participate. I roll over and around, squirming, and whining the whole time. It too comes off of my head, and flies to some unknown destination.
He pushes me when he knows I want and can take more.
He goes easy on me when he knows I need it.
He asks me what I want, even when he has an idea of what he wants.
He is patient. He is kind. He is understanding.
He doesn’t bat a lash when I ask him to maim me.
He doesn’t bat a lash when I ask him to treat me sweetly.
He indulges me in all things.
He laughs with me.
He is turned on by me and never fails to say it.
He makes me feel wanted, needed, beautiful.
He speaks to my body in a secret language that is all his own.
He marks me and makes me feel base, possessed, owned.
I am his princess and his slut and his girl and his pooh.