Swallowed

by Meg Smitherman

This place is too good, too right. I know in the marrow of my bones that this is where we’re meant to be. I believe it so strongly; I’m drowning in it.

“Do not,” he says, muffled as he mouths my neck, “go out alone,” he rips open my jacket, “ever again. That’s an order.” I arch my back. From black damp soil, a seedling springs. “Yes,” I murmur. Angling my hips, I move against him, desperate to gain purchase, the right angle for friction. He lowers his free hand, pressing his palm between my legs, giving me what I need. “Yes, what?” he murmurs, his tone rich with praise and admonishment. God. “Yes, sir,” I gasp. “Good girl,” he growls.