This is a sub fantasy.,
I dedicate this to my soul mate. Maybe today, maybe in the next life, or sometime in between, I will find Her. I have faith.
Possession: A Beautiful Surrender
I belong to Her. Entirely, unquestionably, irrevocably.
She does not ask. She does not need to. I am already Hers, carved into shape by Her will, my devotion etched into every breath I take. When She calls me, I go. When She commands, I obey. And when She looks at me—just that knowing glance, the slight smirk curling Her lips—I shudder, because I know exactly what it means.
Mine.
The word falls from Her tongue like a spell, like an unbreakable chain that I would never dream of escaping. And oh, She enjoys the way it makes me tremble. The way I hold my breath when She runs Her fingers over my throat, lingering for just a second too long, as if to remind me that She could tighten Her grip anytime She pleases. The way She steps closer, close enough that I feel the heat of Her, smell the faint trace of Her perfume, and yet I do not move—because I am only to move when She allows it.
It is wicked enjoyment for Her, the way She toys with me, knowing full well the effect She has. She takes Her time, watching me squirm, watching me need, savoring the way I try so hard to hold still, to be good, to be worthy of Her attention. She doesn’t have to demand my surrender—She simply takes it, knowing I would never deny Her.
Her possession of me is not just in the physical. It is in my mind, where She lingers even when She is away. It is in my heart, where She has made Her mark, permanent and inescapable. It is in the way I wake in the middle of the night, aching for Her, knowing that even in my dreams, I kneel at Her feet.
And then, there is the ritual.
When She allows me to bathe Her, it is nothing less than a sacred rite. I enter the dimly lit bathroom like a pilgrim entering a temple, hushed, reverent, utterly devoted. The steam swirls like incense, curling around Her as She reclines in the water, watching me with that slow, knowing smile. I kneel beside the tub, hands steady, heart pounding, as I begin.
Every touch is worship. Every drop of water that slides down Her skin is a blessing. My hands move over Her body with careful, practiced precision—not just cleansing Her, but honoring Her. The act is not mine to enjoy, not mine to indulge in. It is an offering. It is service.
She sighs, tilting Her head back, closing Her eyes, utterly at ease in the knowledge that She is being cared for as She deserves. And that is my reward—to see Her pleased, to feel Her satisfaction in the way She allows me this closeness, this privilege of touching what is divine.
She speaks while I work, Her voice low and indulgent. "Look at you," She murmurs, amusement laced through Her words. "So careful. So devoted. You love this, don’t you? Knowing you are exactly where you should be?"
And I do. More than anything.
I could fight it, but why would I? She has taken me, claimed me, ruined me for anything less. I am addicted to the way She plays with me, the way She makes me beg without ever saying a word, the way She smiles when She knows I would give Her anything—everything—with just a flick of Her wrist.
I am Hers. She knows it. I know it. And it is the most beautiful thing I have ever known.