I sometimes wonder if anyone could ever understand what it means to belong so completely to another. To live in a world shaped entirely by someone else's will yet feel freer than I ever have before. I do not question it anymore. I do not resist. I do not even think to argue. I am his, Vinmas's, and I am learning every day how deep that truth runs.
Even now, lying on the edge of the bed in my apartment, I feel him everywhere. Not in the physical sense, though that too lingers in my memory. His hand on my thigh, the brush of his lips near my ear, the quiet way he claimed me in public while others watched and whispered. Those touches echo inside me, but the real presence is invisible. It is in the way I breathe, in the curve of my spine, in the subtle tightening of my muscles when I walk or reach for something, in the way my thoughts always return to him.
I replay the last weekend in Alberton again and again. The clubs, the parties, the secret corners where only he and I existed. The way he guided me without words, the way his gaze could pin me to the spot even when our bodies were apart. I remember kneeling beside him, hands on my thighs, feeling a thrill that was almost unbearable. Even now, hours later, the memory brings a shiver across my skin, a pull in my chest, a quiet ache in the pit of my stomach.
It is strange to think that just a few months ago, I never imagined this life. A taxi ride, a chance encounter, curiosity that led to surrender, to obedience, to complete devotion. At first it was thrilling and frightening all at once, but now it is the only life I want. The only way I know how to exist. I am not afraid. I am exhilarated. I am consumed.
I sit up and glance at my phone. A message blinks on the screen, simple, precise.
"Stand in front of the mirror."
I rise immediately. There is no hesitation. Even when he is far away, his voice is the only command that matters. I move to the full-length mirror in my room and study myself. My posture is uneven, my hair messy, my clothes casual and imperfect, but I know it is not the reflection he sees. He sees obedience, he sees presence, he sees the woman he claimed completely.
I type: "I am in front of it."
Dots appear, and then his words materialize on the screen.
"Describe what you see."
I inhale, feeling the familiar flush of heat that always comes when he makes me pause, makes me examine myself through his expectations. I do not simply look. I assess, I measure, I feel the alignment between myself and his will.
"I see a woman who belongs to you," I reply, and I mean it. Not because he asked, but because it is true. Every thought, every desire, every movement in my body belongs to him.
Dots again. "Good. Stand taller. Breathe as I taught you."
I adjust instinctively, shoulders back, chest forward, head high. Even alone, I am aware of the invisible weight of his eyes, the careful assessment of my form. My reflection becomes a lesson in obedience. My body a canvas on which he has painted expectations that I follow without question.
After a moment, another message: "Reach inside yourself. Remember how it feels to kneel at my feet."
A shiver races through me. I close my eyes and sink to my knees, hands resting lightly on my thighs. Memory floods back—vinmas, steady and commanding, his voice soft and firm, guiding, correcting, praising, claiming. I remember the way I felt beneath him, completely surrendered, entirely his. The memory is a fire that warms and ignites, a tension that is deliciously unbearable.
I am aware of my breathing, the slow rise and fall of my chest, the way my mind tightens around his control. Distance does not weaken us. It sharpens the connection, intensifies the hunger, magnifies the surrender. I realize, as I kneel in the quiet of my room, that every cell in my body is attuned to him. My mind, my thoughts, my very instincts exist to anticipate him, to obey him, to please him.
Minutes pass in this position. I do not move until another message arrives.
"Good. Now rise. Dress for me as if I were here."
I obey immediately, moving to the wardrobe I have learned to arrange precisely to his liking. Clothes I have chosen before, clothing that pleases him, that reflects his taste and mine filtered through his guidance. I select a simple blouse, soft against my skin, and a skirt that falls neatly just above the knees. I notice the way the fabric feels as I slip it on, the way the folds rest against my thighs, how it changes the weight and movement of my body.
I stand again in front of the mirror. My reflection is no longer just a woman. It is an image of control, of surrender, of obedience. I type: "I am ready."
Dots appear. "Perfect. Sit quietly. Think of the last time you obeyed me completely."
I sit cross-legged on the floor, hands resting on my thighs again. Memory floods my senses. The last weekend at the club, his hand on the small of my back, guiding me. The way my pulse raced beneath the weight of expectation. The whispered words in my ear, the corrections, the praise, the ownership. I relive every moment, feeling again the tension and the thrill, feeling how deeply I am his, how fully I belong to this strange new world he has created around me.
The message comes again: "You are mine. Remember that. Not sometimes, not when convenient. Always. This is your life now."
I exhale slowly, feeling both weight and relief. He is not asking. He is reminding, asserting, claiming. And I am happy. I am free. I am his.
The rest of the morning passes in a quiet ritual of tasks I know he expects. Breakfast, measured and mindful. Laundry folded in precise order. Notes written to myself, reminders of commands he has given, whispers of lessons I have learned under his guidance. I do everything as if he is watching, and I imagine the faintest smirk on his face, the slight nod of approval he reserves for when I obey without question.
When afternoon comes, the city outside my window is loud and indifferent, but I am isolated in a cocoon of his control. Every movement is deliberate, every thought measured, every pulse a reminder of him. I check my phone periodically, hoping for a word, a command, a sign that I am in his mind even as he moves through his own day. And I know I am. I have trained myself well. I have learned to exist in the space between his control and my surrender, and I crave it.
As evening falls, I sit again in front of the mirror, knees bent and hands resting on my thighs, as I have done countless times before. I whisper to myself, whisper to the reflection, whisper to him. "I am yours. I am falling deeper. I am yours completely."
And I know it is true.
The strange new world I inhabit is not always easy, not always comfortable, but it is mine, because it is shaped by him. By his rules, his desires, his ownership. By the invisible thread that binds me to him across distance, through memory, through expectation, through every deliberate act of obedience.
I fall deeper with each passing day. I surrender more with each message, each memory, each ritual. And the thought of resistance or independence seems foreign, even frightening. For in this strange new world, I have learned what it means to be truly alive, truly desired, and truly owned.
I glance at my phone one last time before sleep. A single message awaits:
"Tomorrow, we explore further. Be ready."
I smile, already anticipating the pull, the control, the surrender. Already falling. Already his.