They always say the beginning is the sweetest part. And maybe they’re right. That first spark between us was like lightning—instant and electric. I remember the way you looked at me like I was this untouchable force. Drawn in. Hell, I was just as taken by you.

You gave yourself to me completely—mind, body, soul. No hesitation. And I respected that. More than you probably know. I didn’t take it lightly, not for a second. When we started our dynamic, I laid it out clean—rules, structure, expectations. I told you, “This isn’t just playtime. This is about trust. This is about giving up control, and me being the one to hold it for you.”

You nodded. You said you trusted me. Said you wanted that.

At first, it was gentle. I gave you space to grow into it. Tested the waters with soft commands, subtle corrections. You bloomed under it. God, you’re beautiful when you obeyed. And when you misbehaved—oh, you wanted to be put back in place. I could see it in you eyes. That look that screamed, “Remind me who I belong to.”

So I did.

But then… it changed. I changed.

It wasn’t overnight. I don’t think you even noticed at first. Maybe I didn’t either. But the rules started creeping beyond just scenes. Into our days. Into our routines. What you wore. When you spoke. Who you talked to. What you ate. It wasn’t about play anymore. It was about life. It was about my life with you in it—our world, sculpted by my hands.

I started punishing you outside the bedroom too. Nothing cruel—never cruel. But I made sure you felt the consequences. Kneeling for long periods. Restriction from touch. Silence. I always watched your reactions closely. And you always took it. Without complaint.

That’s what gets me the most.

You never say anything.

Even when your eyes flicker with hesitation. Even when I know the punishment stung more than you thought it would. Even when your hands tremble a little after I’ve pushed too far. You just swallow it down, nod, and say, “Yes, sir.”

And God help me, I love you more for it. That kind of devotion? It’s rare. You trust me so much it breaks me. And I think… I think maybe I lean into that too hard sometimes.

There are nights I catch you curled up on the edge of the bed, hugging your knees, not quite crying, not quite okay. And I come over, pull you into me, stroke your hair and whisper, “You’re my good girl, you know that? You’re doing so good for me.” And you melt, like you always do. But part of me wonders if you just need that sweetness to counter the storm I’ve become.

There was this one night—not long ago. You broke a rule. Something small. I think you forgot to ask permission to leave the house or some shit like that. I scolded you, made you kneel while I listed every expectation you’d missed that week. My voice was low, firm, that perfect dom tone I know gets to you.

But when I looked down, your eyes weren’t glassy with arousal—they were wide. Scared. Not fun scared. Just… scared.

I didn’t let it show, but it gutted me.

Later that night, when I was holding you in aftercare, I asked gently, “Did I go too far today?”

You shook your head fast. Too fast. “No, Eddie. Never. I’m yours.”

I kissed your temple, whispered, “You’re everything to me. You know that, right?”

You nodded into my chest, but your breath was shaky.

I want to believe this is what you still want. That you still thrive under my control, that you need my dominance like you used to. But something’s shifted. I can feel it in the way you move. Like you’re always trying to stay two steps ahead, just to avoid disappointing me. Like you’re tiptoeing around a man you used to run toward.

Maybe I’ve become… too much. Not cruel. Never cruel. But heavy. Overwhelming.

And yet… you stay.

You love me. Deeply. I see it in the way you look at me when I walk into a room. In how you reach for my hand without thinking. In how you whisper, “I belong to you,” like it’s a prayer. And I know you mean it.

But sometimes I wonder…

How long before love turns into fear?