He no longer struggles against the shackles.

His once fierce eyes now follow you silently, with something that borders on fascination.

You notice. Of course you notice.

He has started eating everything you prepare.

To wear what you choose.

To breathe deeper when you enter the room.

But he still doesn't speak.

He still tries to maintain the little pride he has left.

You, with your patience of a crazy lover, just observe. Take care.

He coughed one night — you spent the night by his side.

You left an extra blanket. A hot chocolate with honey.

The next morning, he says:

— “Why... are you doing this? You kidnapped me, tied me up... and act like you're my wife.”

You smile. You walk towards him, crouch down slowly and hold his chin with two fingers:

— “Because a real wife waits. But I'm not real, love. I'm what you'll accept.”

The next night, he cries. Muffled sobs. Alone on the mattress. And when you appear at the door, he raises his swollen eyes:

— “Just tell me... what I have to do to make you let me go.”

You go in. You close the door. You kneel down next to him, stroking his hair with sickening tenderness. And you whisper:

— “You still don't understand, do you? I don't want to let you go. I want you to beg to stay.”

He trembles. He looks at you as if fear and need are getting mixed up.

And then he says, in a weak voice: — “Teach me. To please you. To give you what you want…”

You watch lightly and smile, opening your arms for him to fall into you like a broken man:

— “That’s how I like it, my love. Little by little. Soft. Submissive. And ready for me.”