Entry One

The beginning of everything.

He has a key now.

I handed it to him without ceremony; just reached into the little dish by the door, pressed it into his palm, and said, “It’s yours.”
He looked at it like it meant something special. Like it was more than metal. Like it was permission he’d been craving.

And maybe it was.

I didn’t give him rules. I didn’t give him a schedule. I just told him: Come when you want. Take what you want. I’ll be here.

He smiled at the words. Not cocky. Not cruel. Just… satisfied. Like something he’d been holding back finally snapped free. His eyes, usually darkened and wild when we were together, had a new sort of sparkle to them; a sparkle I was so pleased to have inspired.

Now, most days, I work from home. I sit at the kitchen table or curl up on the couch in whatever soft thing I woke up in, and I try not to think about whether he’ll come that day.
Maybe some early morning, quick afternoon stop, or even the middle of the night - with his schedule, you just never know.
But I stay ready, prepared - hopeful.

When he comes in, he’s quiet. Steady. The click of the key in the door is almost louder than his footsteps. Sometimes I don’t even hear him until his hand is already in my hair. Sometimes he doesn’t say a word - just pulls my body where he wants it, like we’ve done this a hundred times. Like I already belong to him.

And maybe I do.

It’s not about being used. Not really.
It’s about being known. It’s about letting go - of control, of time, of everything but the way his hands feel on my skin.

I gave him access, and he takes it with reverence. With hunger.
He shows up because he can’t resist. And I let him, because I don’t want him to stop.

And when he leaves, when the air is still thick with the electricity of us together, I write it down.
Not to keep track. Not to prove anything.

Just so I can remember the way it feels to be wanted like this.