This is not placement.
This is receiving him without direction.
This is not control.
This is not me saying when and where and how.
This is me on my knees and elbows, breath gone,
having him deliver everything that's mine.
Because sometimes I don’t want to own him.
Sometimes I want to be claimed.
Not like porn.
Not like a scene.
Like history.
Like bone.
Like the kind of fucking that splits you open and stitches you back together without a needle.
He wasn’t always like this.
He was tender. Careful. Gentle.
He would hold my hips like bone china he thought he might break.
And I loved him for that.
But I also waited.
Waited for the man who would grow teeth.
Waited for the man who would pin me like prey;
not because he wanted to hurt me ;
but because he finally trusted I wouldn’t crack.
This didn’t come from violence.
This didn’t come from dominance.
It came from power.
From claiming.
From knowing his finger nails could leave marks;
and knowing I would wear them like jewellery.
After Landmark; after declaring himself Power and Expression;
he found it.
He found me.
He found what I had been waiting for since the first time I took him inside me.
Not softness.
Not care.
But power.
Not because I need it to feel loved.
But because I need to remind myself of the power at my command.
There are nights; rare nights, when I don’t tame him.
I don’t tether him.
I don’t guide his rhythm.
I don’t slow his pace.
I have him fuck me until the sound leaves my throat.
Until my body arches away and back into him like I don’t know where I stop and he begins.
He rakes my flanks with force; like nature.
Flowing. Like thunder. Like tide.
He buries himself until I feel it in my teeth.
He hurts me, not in cruelty, but in the kind of generosity only a man devoted completely would dare.
This is not placement.
This is surrender.
This is trust.
This is love;
as raw as bone;
as deep as ache;
as real as skin remembering skin.
This is how he fucked me when we made our daughter Padme and this is how I birthed her; on my hands and knees while she tore me open, like the force of nature that she is.
And when it’s over, when we are wrecked and panting and silent; he curls around me.
Quiet.
Soft again.
Anchored again.
Mine.
Always mine.