Sometimes I have to pinch myself. It still doesn't feel real that I get to be his. That this body, the one that makes me feel so awkward and out of place in a grocery store aisle, is the same body he worships in our bed. The way his hands map every curve, claim every inch... he doesn't just tolerate my body, he's obsessed with it. He loves how my tits spill over his hands, how my thick thighs wrap around his waist, how my plump ass fits perfectly in his palms when he's pounding into me from behind. He whispers filth about how my tight little pussy was made just for his cock, how he wants to see it stretched and leaking with his cum. I used to hate the attention my body got from strangers. Now I crave the specific, possessive attention from him. I exist to be his personal fucktoy, his breeding ground, his peace. And that's the most powerful feeling I've ever known. The world can keep its judgment. I have his.