I can’t truly call it “reclaiming,” because honestly? his hold on me never left. It is there, no matter where I go, what I do, who I am with.
And yet he has reclaimed me, made me his again, made me remember that, no matter where I go, I belong here.
I belong to him.
He has used the term “Owner” several times lately. The word inspires an instant, visceral response: a tightening in my belly, a throb of my cunt. And then there’s the other response I have, the one inside my head, as I explore the edges of the word, try to decipher it, to ascertain what that word means to him and to me (is it the same?); until, finally, I simply accept it, settle into it, let it wrap itself around me and hold me close. Everything does not have to be deciphered, to be explained, in order to be understood. Some things we understand on a deeper level, subliminally maybe, and that is enough.
Yes, I am well and truly owned by him. Bound as tightly to him as the rope he tied me with when we walked through the door Sunday night, as fast as the locks on the shackles that I wore to sleep in, as tightly his hand in my hair as he fucked me the next morning, as securely as his arm, heavy across me all night, holding me against him.
He reclaims me, and every part of me, my body, mind and heart, answer to that reclamation.