Other women, the ones before me, have earned his submission — faster, harder, and maybe more intensely.
Whatever those women were, it was enough for him to give himself. Whatever he was, it enough for them to take what they wanted. He gave and they consumed — his pleasure and his pain, his thoughts, his words, and his submission.
But they never had his laughter. I’m sure of it.
The purity and simplicity as it erupts from his chest is unmistakably new and unequivocally mine.
I broke it from him. Something ripped him open, cleaved it from him, and set his laughter free.
That part of him — pure and without abandon — it belongs to me.
The women before me, they may have tied him tighter, beat him harder, used him more.
But I’ve done it better. The proof isn’t in a collar, or lasting marks, or in obedience that I’m not always skilled at inspiring.
The proof isn’t in whatever binds I’ve tied that hold him to me.
The proof is in his laughter, in his giving in and giving over. It’s in his letting go.