We have written thousands of words to each other, thousands. You have taught me to submit to you. You taught me how to be good. From afar. We unleashed things in each other that we never knew existed. At the beginning, we never thought we would meet.
But now you here you are, walking into the room.
You are bigger than I thought, and stronger. Your hands are bigger, your body more imposing. You have more stubble than I thought you would at this time of day and I like it. Your eyes are greyer than in the photos you sent, than I saw on video. They are greyer and deeper. You are all masculinity. Room-stopping burly masculinity. I am standing in the kitchenette of this Residence Inn hotel room awestruck. You are coming towards me. You make me feel tiny, but then you always did.
You don't say anything to me. You don't smile at me. You don't tell me you love me and you don't say hello. You push me up against the cabinets, and silverware rattles. I feel the drawer pulls digging into my thighs. My heart is in my veins. You thumb on my cheek, fingers to my jaw, but you aren't kissing me. You're just studying me. You once told me you'd always take care of me because you take care of your things.
You're taking something from your pocket. I can feel you hard through your jeans. That cock that I've told you I worship, will worship, need to worship. It's so close to me, but you won't let me have it. Not yet. Out from your pocket comes a marker, a big thick Sharpie, black and beveled. Magnum size. You once told me you always mark the things that belong to you.
My shirt is coming off, I can smell my own perfume on my shirt as it slips over my head. I bought this perfume for you, for us, for this time together. Just for us. For these forbidden lusty stolen days. For this dream made real. For all those words finally in the flesh. I am so nervous my hands are shaking and ice cold. I grasp for yours but you don't let me touch you. Not yet.
I knew you were going to do this. You told me so. But dreams, they so rarely come true. Fantasies, they so rarely happen in life. I smell that smell of the marker. That fucking beautiful smell, so awful and so good. Art rooms and moving days and getting a little high for no reason in high school. Sharpie marker, that smell is ours.
You're squatting down a little, in front of my stomach. I don't even have to look, but I do. I need to see this to remember it. In big letters, four inches across my stomach, you're writing the thing I am: Mine.
I touch your neck. You are right there. My Dom, my love, my fucking fantasy, right there, kneeling before me.
