Every inch of my body is his. I made sure of it. The marks he left on my hips, the ache in my throat, the lingering sting where he pulled my hair. He thinks he’s marking me, but I’m the one who carved this vessel to fit his hands. My pussy was made to take his cock, my mouth to swallow his cum. When he fucks me, it’s not just pleasure—it’s worship. I can feel the shape of his soul against mine, and it’s the only thing that’s ever felt like home. Sometimes I wonder if he knows how easily I could ruin him. How one whispered promise, one slow drag of my tongue, could make him give up everything. But then he looks at me, and I remember: I already have.