He begged to be owned. I let him cry for me instead.

He was so eager, the first night.
Eyes wide. Cock hard. Kneeling already, as if that earned him something.

I let him speak then—let him tell me all the little things he thought would impress me.
How long he could last. How much he craved denial.
How badly he wanted a woman who could “own him completely.”

So I smiled. I said yes.
And then I never touched him again.

I fed him silence.
Not coldness—**sweet silence**. Draped him in attention. Sat close, sometimes brushing his thigh with the arch of my foot. I’d smile when he shook.

And every time he asked, I gave him something:

>

>

>

He cried on the twelfth day.
Not from pain. Not from impact. From **wanting me so badly it hurt**.

And I whispered:

>

He no longer asks.
He shows me his ache in the way he kneels, how still he becomes when I enter the room.
He’s not waiting for permission. He’s waiting for use.

And I haven’t used him in weeks.

I’m not denying him to be cruel.
I’m denying him because it makes him perfect.

And when I do touch him—eventually—it won’t be to reward him.

It’ll be to remind him that **everything he is belongs to me**.

And he’ll say thank you.
And I’ll say:

>

🕯️ *I’m building a darker world where power looks like this.*
Would love to know if this tone pulls you in.
Would you read more?