The Ache of Obedience

March 20

He told me to be quiet today.
To give him space. To wait.
And I did.
I swallowed my words, bit my tongue,
let the silence wrap around me like a command,
let it stretch between us—tight, unbroken, pulling.

He does not have to tie me down to keep me still.
His absence alone is a binding,
a leash wrapped around my throat,
a whispered restraint wrapped around my limbs.
Even when he is not here, he holds me.
Even when he says nothing, I am listening.
Because I am his.
And I obey.

But silence is not empty.
It fills the space between my ribs, settles in my belly,
curls into my lungs like the air before a storm.
It makes me restless, makes me burn,
makes me crave the sound of my name in his mouth,
makes me ache for the moment his control turns into touch.

Because even as I wait—
my body is already pleading.
My skin is already whispering for him.
My pulse already beats to the rhythm of his voice,
to the ghost of his hands,
to the weight of his gaze—though I cannot see it,
I feel it pressing into me.
I feel it everywhere.

I close my eyes, and I see him.
The way he will take me—
not in hesitation, not in softness,
but in certainty, in hunger, in ownership.
I imagine his fingers curling at the base of my scalp,
his palm pressing flat against my throat,
not to restrict—no, he would never—
but to remind me.

To remind me that I am not alone in this ache.
To remind me that he has been waiting, too.
To remind me that he knows how much I crave
the press of his body against mine,
the weight of his discipline,
the rough, reverent way he will finally, finally
shatter the quiet he commanded.

I wonder if he knows what his absence does to me.
If he feels the same unbearable tension
coiling between us, unseen but heavy,
like the moment before a match strikes,
like the second before thunder breaks the sky open.

Because when he finally returns,
when he finally speaks,
when he finally touches—
it will not be gentle.
It will not be sweet.

It will be his hand on my neck, pulling my head back,
his breath in my ear, low and knowing,
his fingers bruising my thighs as he parts them,
his body pressing into mine,
his voice thick with praise—
“There’s my good girl. I knew you’d wait for me.”

And I will break for him, then.
I will let my silence turn to moans,
let my patience turn to pleading,
let my stillness turn to shaking beneath his hands.
Because he asked me to wait.
Because I obeyed.
Because I am his.

And now, finally—
he will take what is his.