I crave to lazily pull him into my lap and watch him shiver–a response as he fails to decide whether he should melt into my touch or tense up, trying to prove that he was a big boy, ready for however I wanted to play with him today.


I want to whisper “Be still or I’ll have to stop” into his ear, as he shivers and whines, trying his best to be the good boy I knew he was while I did the very things that made him squirm and writhe. Perhaps because I love seeing him helpless, looking for control and finding none until he meets my eyes.


I want to meet his eyes as a challenge, almost as someone who thought they would do their best but had utterly failed and surrendered control–just waiting for me to do my worst…or my best.


Because he knew that no matter how many marks I put on his skin, how many tears I solicited from his delicate eyes, no matter how many cries I managed to pull from his oh so soft lips…he was safe.


I was his best nightmare and his worst dream. I was the reason he woke up to serve and the reason he slept so deeply. Because no matter how much I decides to bend him, he knew that I would never break him.


Because though I exerted the power, truly it was he who held it. He who crafted the basket, and I that would fill it with his utmost desires, keep the lid sealed tight. Whether that be bruises on his skin or gentle touches after a long day.


We were one in the same. And I would exploit that.