I’ve always known I wasn’t meant to be in control. There’s something inside me that craves the opposite—to be told what to do, how to move, how to exist. I don’t see it as giving up power; I find freedom in surrender. And when I found him, I knew I’d finally met the man who could give me what I needed. A Master who would shape me, own me, and use me exactly the way I was meant to be used.
– relationship with my body –
The first time he told me to hit the gym, I thought it was a joke. But the look in his eyes told me otherwise. This wasn’t a suggestion—it was an order. And orders aren’t meant to be questioned.
Every morning, I drag myself out of bed, my body still aching from the day before. But I go. Because he told me to. Because he wants me stronger, harder, better. And because I want to be all those things for him.
The weights feel heavier when I know he’s watching. His eyes bore into me, dissecting every movement, every flaw. And when I falter, his voice cuts through the air like a whip. “Again.” So I do it again. And again. And again. Until my muscles scream and my vision blurs. But I don’t stop. I can’t. Not until he says so.
There’s a strange kind of pleasure in the pain. In knowing that every drop of sweat, every burning muscle, is for him. That my body isn’t mine anymore—it’s his. And he’s molding it into something worthy of his attention.
When he’s satisfied with my progress, he makes me show it off. Sometimes it’s in private, just the two of us. He’ll sit back, his eyes dark and hungry, and order me to flex, to pose, to strut. And I do it. Because I’m his. Because I exist for his pleasure.
Other times, he takes it further. He’ll parade me in front of others, his hand resting possessively on my shoulder. “Look at him,” he’ll say, his voice dripping with pride. “Isn’t he perfect?” And I’ll stand there, my body on display, my heart pounding in my chest. Because I know what’s coming next. Because I know that once the evening ends, he’ll take me home and remind me exactly who I belong to.
The first time he hit me, I wasn’t ready for it. The sting of his hand against my skin took my breath away. But then I saw the look in his eyes—dark, possessive, hungry—and something inside me snapped. I wanted more. I needed more.
Now, I crave it. The way his hands grip my throat, his fingers digging into my flesh. The way he slaps me, bites me, marks me as his. The way he fucks me, rough and relentless, until I’m nothing but a trembling, broken mess beneath him.
It’s not just the pain I love—it’s the power behind it. The way he uses my body like it’s his own. Because it is. Every inch of me belongs to him. And when he’s done with me, when I’m lying there bruised and breathless, I feel more alive than I ever have before.
– a submissive’s high –
People don’t understand why I do this. Why I let him control me, hurt me, own me. But they don’t have to. This isn’t about them. It’s about me. And him. And the way he makes me feel.
When I’m with him, I don’t have to think. I don’t have to worry. I just have to obey. And in that obedience, I find a kind of peace I’ve never known before. It’s like I’ve finally found my purpose. My place. And it’s right here, at his feet.
(Copyedited by himbodied)
