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Why did people always want to be loved for who they could be? Didn't it make more sense to be loved for who you already were?
I'd spent almost three years trimming little pieces of myself away to fit into a life with Harry. Not because he'd asked me to, but because I was scared of what I secretly wanted.
I would have no excuse not to let those dangerous parts of me grow.
"You said, not really. Women spend too much time pretending to be comfortable."
And partly because when everything was at his command, I had no more worries, no more choices. Just open wide, be fucked well, and come hard.
"You surrendered to my control, now surrender to my care too," he said, but it was gentler than the commands he'd made in the basement.
"I'm going to fuck you right out of your sanity tonight, little one," I rasped in her ear.
Did I have an answer for her? A true one I could speak, or simply one that would satisfy her?
"Be my pretty deity, petal. For your cunt is divine, and so is your mouth. Because you sing like an angel as you come on my cock and make me see the heavens."
"I'll fill you up with cum, petal. Make you heavy with my scent."
"I'll keep you plugged with my cock while you sleep, watch my seed seep out of you as I hunt you tomorrow."
"No. I like you awake as you come and call my name. But I don't mind you holding still and taking it like a good girl."
"Maybe not as much as I like you thrashing on my cock, trying to fuck me with that sweet cunt of yours every bit as hard as I fuck you."
He always used that word carefully. Mates were allowed to decorate their partners homes. Mates got to sleep in and were fed breakfast by hand. Mates found their laundry dry and folded hours after they'd forgotten it in the washing machine.
Being “petal” was playful and naughty and sweet. Being “mate” was being cared for and reminded of belonging. I loved both roles.