The Silent Claim

I don’t need to ask what you feel, I already know. Your body tells me before your lips dare to try. The way your breath stutters when my shadow falls across you, the way your pulse betrays the hunger you pretend to tame. You think you wear control, but I see through it. Your body has confessed to me a hundred times over.
Your pride is nothing more than glass-thin, fragile, begging to be shattered. And I do shatter it, with silence, with words, with nothing more than the pressure of my hand. I watch it splinter and fall, leaving you raw, trembling, stripped of the armor you clutch so desperately outside these walls. That moment when you’re bare and helpless, that is the truest form of you. And it belongs to me.
What do you savor most? Not just your surrender, but your hunger for it. You crave my cruelty as much as my care. You shiver when I promise pain, you lean into the sting before it even lands, you ache for the punishment as much as the mercy. And you know why? Because I am the one who makes them the same. With me, suffering and devotion blur until they are indistinguishable, and you can’t help but beg for both.
You were mine long before you understood it. I saw it in the way you lingered, in the weight of your silence, in the softness of your gaze that begged to be caught. And now you are. Caught. Kept. Owned.
You don’t exist outside of me anymore. You exist for me. Every breath, every ache, every trembling thought bends back to me. And I will remind you of it again and again until the idea of breathing without me feels impossible.
Because you were always mine. You just hadn’t met me yet.