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“I can see you have an answer for me, little one,” he says, leaning forward and speaking against my cheek before placing a kiss there. “Does this position help you confess?”
My eyes close and my head tilts back as if too heavy from the eroticism he just filled it with. How does he do that? How could he possibly know that getting up in my space like this, something that would normally make me flinch away from any other person on the planet, would make me melt instead?
Is it because I no longer feel like I’m in the spotlight, with him staring down at me?
Is it because he’s closer, lending me his strength?
Is it because he’s lowered himself to more my level instead of making me look up and meet his eyes?
Or is it the feel of his breath and soft beard against my flesh that stupefies me enough that I no longer care about anything, can’t even feel my shame or come up with a good enough reason to hold back from him?
“Yes, Sir,” I finally reply to at least one of his questions. It comes out as a breathy exhale I can’t seem to be embarrassed about.
“That’s my good girl,” he purrs, and I whimper as my body presses closer to him, my still-tilted head now angling to the side to unconsciously bare my neck to him. “Now, tell me what it is I can do that would make you feel more secure in us, Kitten.”
This time, his question is worded as a command, and along with this new position, it makes the answer fall from my lips whether I want it to or not.
“Fetlife, Sir. I know it’s stupid. I know it’s immature. But… it would make me feel more secure if others could see you feel for me even a fraction of what I feel for you, Sir.” I swallow, the sound of my own voice instead of his pulling me out of the trance he put me under enough that I gain back some of my nervousness. “I-I know how you feel about social media. I know it’s a sore spot for you and that you feel it’s a waste of time. But you asked, Sir. And that’s what popped into my head first.” My voice is quivering now, taking on a defensive, backed-into-a-corner note I try to clear when I continue. “You’ve said before that it’s like someone asking for flowers, that it ruins the gesture and doesn’t mean as much as it would as a surprise. And I get that. I totally do. But I’m not trying to dictate anything. I just want you to know it does mean a lot to me. It would make me feel more secure. And it most definitely would help me believe you truly do want to keep me, that you don’t want to find someone better and replace me, if every once in a while you made it known to someone other than me.”
My chin wobbles, and I roll my eyes at myself for getting emotional over something so dumb. I push through, wanting him to understand what I’m feeling. “We have to be discreet. I get that. I have no problem with that and would never, ever complain or try to change your mind about that decision. But if that weren’t the case, I would be screaming it from the rooftops that I belong to you, that I am owned by the most amazing man I’ve ever met in my entire life. And I get to do that on my page, because no one knows us. It gives me as close to the feeling of publicly claiming you and being claimed by you that I’ll ever know. It gives me a sense of pride and confidence when I make posts about my Dom. And God, if I were to go on and see you’ve posted a photo of me, showing me off, it would feel as if I’m a prize you’ve won. Something treasured that you want the world to know you own.”
My cheeks heat at having spilled all that to him. I hold my breath, dreading his response. Nothing good has ever come from bringing up social media with him. But I hope we’ve been together long enough, that he knows me well enough now, that he’ll understand I’m not like whoever put a bad taste in his mouth about it before. I won’t try to tell him what or when to post. I won’t complain if he doesn’t comment on all my pictures. I just want him to mark me as his on his page like he does my body. When he sees the visible signs of his ownership fading, he wastes no time refreshing the bite mark on my inner thigh, each fingerprint bruise on my hips, and each colorful work of art he makes on my breast with his mouth. So as often as that occurs, it would be nice to open up my page to find a notification from the man I can’t get enough of.
