Deep within me there has always been a disagreeable person, one that could have stood up to the adults that put me in a box as a child, the bad boss-bitches that made sure I never got ahead, the toxic family members that feared my voice and that hidden will within me that had always known the truth of their toxicity.
I don’t mention my own experiences for pity, or because I have some need to talk endlessly about myself. I say it because I know damned well that there are others out there that share my story.
For anyone hearing this that can relate. Just in case no one has ever given you permission, I am. You deserve to be heard, to be loved, to just be. It’s enough.
She always came so easily, so perfectly responsive to his touch, his voice, his will even. Although she hated thinking of it like that. She was stubborn and would remind him vehemently that he was a man from another time, that he needed to remember she had the vote, or in other words, he had no right to impose any will on her in any way, shape, or form.
What she didn’t know, was that the master was always the slave. Yes, he would be her man. He’d bend her body and her heart, her pride to his. And he did. Subtly. But all the while she was his goddess; Hathor, the Egyptian goddess of love.
He belonged to her.
Because what good was a man with nothing to worship but himself?
Darcy Branwyn 
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