Putty in his hands

Some days I have to walk.
Some days there is other exercise.
To make me strong.
To make me shapely.
To help me lose weight.

There are particular areas of my body that interest him.
Particular exercises to encourage them in the desired direction.
Nothing unhealthy.
Unless you consider being molded to suit his desires unhealthy.

I find it inspiring.
Arousing.
Objectifying.

Delicious.

Plus there's a promise of a reward.
Something tangible.
For when I've reached some unstated goal.

To me, just pleasing him is reward enough.
But he has something else in mind.
It may just be sexy underwear.
It may be something else.
He's not telling.
Which makes me tingle.
And that's the whole idea anyway, isn't it?

There are two double closets in my bedroom. They are side by side, each with a pair of sliding doors, and the doors are mirrored. He has taken to standing us in front of the doors, facing them. I am naked, and he is fully dressed. He holds me to him, facing the mirror, my back against his front, my butt pulled into his crotch, my nakedness striking against his sport jacket. He pulls me tight against him. The picture we create burns itself onto the projection screens in the back of our minds.

I am sex.
I am pussy.
I am naked.
I am his.

I am his pleasure.
His joy and his torment.

And he?

He is my life.

(And now, after writing, my torment, too. I've turned myself on with my own words, and my pussy is screaming for relief. Not a chance. I wouldn't even ask. He keeps me for himself, keeps my pleasure for himself, my arousal oozes from my pores as he pulls my nakedness against him, as he grinds his cock into my ass through his slacks. I revel in my frustration, as every pleading contraction of my cunt and womb throughout the week reminds me of the joy of having ceded myself to his control and power and... that word he uses songs to say.)