Adore

I am not showing Sir this blog until I get his Mother Lie, as he calls it. The circumstances of our relationship are sketchy and I'll revisit them at a later time, but for now, I am holding this blog hostage and I'm going to write ANY LITTLE THING my heart desires about Sir.

Grin.

He can't erase my entries. So I could write some sappy things here. I could expose him for the romantic he can be, or paint him as a vicious and cruel (Did I mention that just a day or so ago, he made me trek to a store -- on foot -- in the pouring rain to pick up electronics? While I was sick? And had wet hair? That got wetter in the rain?), or make him look inept and ineffective?

I wouldn't do that. I adore him, of course. When he's not being a massive tool, he is very, very nice to me. He lets me have a lot of things, says very sweet things to me. He lets me touch my cunt if I ask properly. He comforts me when I am depressed. He loves me. He might not tell you himself, but he does. I have tons of legal proof: emails, texts, instant messages.

I should stop going on about him, but this is really the first time I have been able to say full-out what I want to about Sir. I think more than anything, I am speechlessly grateful to be owned by him.

It wasn't luck. He found me. I didn't know I was looking for him. He found me and waited, and waits, because there was no other way this could have been. I was always meant to be his.