Mine to Break, Mine to Hold! (Real Story)

June 15

She was trembling already. Not from f*ear—she knew I’d never harm her in a way that wasn’t chosen—but from the weight of the silence I wrapped around her like a n*oose.

I watched her kneel. Nake*d, vulner*able, beautiful in the way a candle is when you bring a match too close. Arms behind her back, eyes trained low, her breath shallow. She was trying to anticipate me. Foolish. Sweet. I let her wait.

Five minutes. Ten. Long enough for her own mind to start gnawing at her.

Then I stood, slow and deliberate. The echo of my boots was louder than it needed to be.

“Did I tell you to look up?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then why the f*uck are your eyes trembling like they’re about to disobey?”

“I’m sorry, Sir. I—”

“Don’t apologize. You haven’t even failed properly yet.”

Her lips parted in the softest gasp. There it was—that little fracture I wanted.

I circled her like a wolf around prey that begged to be eaten. I didn’t touch her. Not yet. I leaned in close behind her ear and whispered:

“You want me to break you tonight.”

A full-body shiver. No denial. Good girl.

“But you also want me to keep you safe. To catch you when you fall apart. Isn’t that a delicious little contradiction?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I snapped my fingers once. She flinched and almost flinched at herself flinching. Even better.

“Say it. Say what you are.”

“I’m yours.”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours.”

“Say what kind of thing you are.”

“I’m your thing.”

“My what?”

“Your object. Your possession. Your… toy.”

I smirked. “My obedient little nothing.”

I took her by the chin, tilting her face up. Her eyes searched mine, full of hunger and shame and adoration. I spi*t on her cheek and wiped it with my thumb like a benediction. Then I kissed her forehead. Confusion flickered in her—humili*ation burning with reverence.

That’s the line I love dancing on.

I made her crawl to the center of the room. She moved like something trained—graceful, aching. I could see her body responding even as her mind started to fray.

I gave her commands without context. Kneel. Face the corner. Present. Bow. She stumbled, uncertain which rules applied. When she faltered, I whispered, “Patheti*c. And still mine.” And when she got it right, I said, “Perfect little nothing. I’m proud of you.”

I had her recite her mantras, voice shaking: “I exist to be use*d. I exist to be owned. I find peace in obedience.”

Then I struck her. Light at first. Then harder. My hand on her as*s, her thig*hs, her br*easts. She cried out—not from p*ain alone, but the release of it. Each blow untied a knot inside her. And after each one, I kissed the spot I’d hit.

She sobbed. She whispered, “Thank you.”

I pulled her into my lap and whispered filth into her ear, degrading her between strokes of her hair.

“My little thing. So desperate to be broken.”

“Yes, Sir…”

“And so easy to love once I’ve reduced you to ash.”

She crumbled then—completely. Her body went limp. Her breath came in hiccups. She wasn’t here anymore, not fully. Her eyes unfocused. Her mouth slightly open, but no words came. I pressed her face to my chest. She melted against me like wax.

Subspace.

She was mine. Not just in posture, but in mind, in soul. And she knew, even as the last of her thoughts slipped away, that I was still there—watching every breath, guarding the edge of her descent.

I rocked her gently. No more games now. Just warmth. Just the rhythm of safety.

“You did so well, little one,” I murmured. “You gave me everything.”

A small smile flickered on her lips.

And I knew—beneath the tears, the red marks, the exhaustion—she had never felt more free.