It all started with a random comment he made, in a very dominant and somewhat aggressive manner, about how I would fuck someone at work.
Sitting on the bathroom floor, feeling the marks of his belt rising from my skin, I knew to the core of my being, with utter and complete certainty, that I was alive. That this is what I need to survive. What I need to wake up and want to live another day.
He teased and tortured me with humiliation and pain.
This is what I need. To survive the self-repression, the people, the misery of the job and the miles upon miles of concrete.
Owned. I need his control more than I need any fucking thing in this world.
My drug. My addiction. The feeling of his ownership, the growl of possessiveness in his voice, the unwavering authority in his movement, the way his hands have no doubt that this body belongs to him...Not me...Raw dominance. When it radiates off him, I fucking melt.