How come— he who bends me never broke me But rather, his pleasure is what I desire
I thought it was pain, but when it lasted, I long for the feeling.

I thought it would hurt. I thought the ache would make me turn away. But when it lasts, when it lingers, I find I crave it. I long for it. I feel feverish every time it’s in—every inch, every movement igniting me, setting my blood alight. My body remembers before my mind does, and I am lost in the rhythm, in the weight of him against me.

I cry. I moan softly—barely a whisper—but amidst the push and the pull, the give and take, I laugh. Playfully. Recklessly. As if the world outside no longer exists, as if only this closeness, this surrender, matters.

He bends me, yes—but he never breaks me. In that intimacy, raw and unguarded, I am laid bare, yet whole. Vulnerable, yet unafraid. Desire and trust coil together until I am fully his, and yet, wholly myself.

I am mine. And in his presence, feverish, moaning, laughing, I am unmade, remade, and understood in ways no one else could ever reach.