He takes her fingers out of her own mouth when she sucks on her fingers. He will not let her pull on her own hair or bite her own wrist or the dozen other things she does to cope or process the pain and the pleasure.
He puts her in leather mitts when she makes fists so tight she leaves four little crescent moons on each of her palms. He slaps her hard across the face when she drifts too far away into sub space.
She is starting to learn that when she is in his bed she is his. Her reactions are his. Her orgasms and her tears are his.
The thought makes her knees weak and her thighs clench.
She finds herself playing his games even when she is alone, chiding herself when she goes back to her old ways of doing things. She sits up straight. She doesn’t curse. She meets people’s eyes when she speaks to them. She cleans up her messes.
She keeps herself smooth and waxed even though she hasn’t seen him in weeks. She keeps herself up at night wondering if it would be okay to text him to ask permission to come.
She fucks herself too hard, pretending her thin fingers are his thick ones. She wishes she could make herself sore the way he does.
She feels guilty when she breaks his rules. She gets red in the face when she imagines confessing.
Every buzz of her phone brings delight or disappointment. She saves his emails like the best part of dessert; a thing to savor last.
She is his. She is his. She wants to write it in notebooks in math class and on bathroom walls and across the sky.