You order him down, and he goes eagerly and without complaint. You're secretly pleased; there are times when he kicks and fights, and those are good times, but tonight you want him to want it. You want to own him, totally and completely, and you feel at all times that you do, but it seems more so when he lays back and silently begs you with those eyes to make him scream.
And you do. Oh, how you do. Yours isn't a gentle or caring affair; it was never based on love and never will be. His white back arches in the darkness, he reaches above his head to clutch at the pillow, and you smile. Yes, it's better this way, when he knows that he needs it and that you're the only one that can give it to him.
He twists now like a fish caught on a line. He hisses, sucks in breath, tries to quiet his moans. He arches his head back and his whole body goes rigid, begging to be touched. You put your hands on his skin and he whimpers, and then you force him back flat against the bed. You kiss him—- not out of affection, but because you want to own that part of him too—- and his tongue slides past yours, hungry, seeking. Your hands are in his hair. His body presses closer against yours. His small form, pale, vulnerable, tight against you, enveloping you. You pull away, move closer, move harder, until he is somewhere beyond screaming.
But not for long. You bring him back and hold him there, in a place where all he can do is moan and writhe, trying to get away even though he never wants it to stop. You keep him there, listening to his cries until, yes, there, the tears form at the corners of his eyes and spill down his cheeks. And even now, he holds his arms above his head, exposing himself, offering himself to you. He is yours. You own him.
Satisfied, you let him tumble over the edge. His climax is quick and intense; he tenses and shudders and barely makes a sound. Afterwards, he sighs, eyes closed, oblivious to everything but sheer exhaustion. You have already gone. For another night, at least, your position has been reassured. He is yours.
But you also know that he will only belong to you as long as he needs you. The moment he can find another place—- and you cannot think where, but you know that it must exist somewhere—- where he can be satisfied, he will slip through your fingers.
Until then he will come to you. Until then, he is yours.
End.