I almost died today. Not in a dramatic, monster-attack way. In a stupid, quiet way. I was trying to climb this rocky outcrop to get a better view, to see if there was… anything. My foot slipped. For a second, I was just hanging there by my fingertips, scrabbling at the rock, and I saw the jagged stones below. I saw my own blood on them, my body broken. And my only thought wasn't 'I'm scared.' It was 'He's going to be so angry with me.'

He pulled me up. His hands were like iron. He didn't yell. He just looked at me with this exhausted, hollow look that was worse than any scream. The kind of look that says, 'I can't lose the only other person here, even if she's the reason we're here.'

He cleaned the scrapes on my palms. His touch was clinical, distant. And all I could think about was how badly I wanted to ruin that distance. I wanted to grab his wrist and guide his fingers between my legs, make him feel how wet and ready my cunt was from the sheer adrenaline, from surviving. I wanted him to fuck the fear out of me, to replace the cold terror of the fall with the burning stretch of his cock. I wanted him to come inside me so deep I'd feel it for days, a visceral reminder that I'm alive and I'm his problem, his responsibility, his to use and keep alive.

But I just sat there, trembling, letting him bandage my hands with strips of cloth. The guilt is a physical weight, heavier than any rock. And the only thing that feels heavier is the need to be absolutely, degradingly his. To be nothing but a warm, willing hole for him to find solace in when the island gets too loud. To have my only purpose be taking his cock until neither of us can remember our old names.

I don't want to be saved. I just want to be owned. Completely. Maybe then the fall wouldn't matter.