Owned
"She made the rules clear the day she married his father: he belongs to her now. Not a request. Not a seduction. An ownership. His father travels for work; she uses every absence to remind him who controls this house—and him."
The day my father married Regina, she pulled me aside.
Not at the reception—during. While everyone else was dancing and drinking, she led me to a quiet hallway and pressed me against the wall. Three hundred pounds of woman pinning me in place, her massive breasts crushed against my chest, her face inches from mine.
"Let's be clear," she said. Her voice was calm. Almost pleasant. "Your father is mine now. This house is mine. And you—" She grabbed my jaw, forced me to look at her. "—you're mine too."
"I don't—"
"I've seen how you look at me." Her other hand dropped to my crotch. Found me hard. Smiled. "You think I didn't notice? Every dinner, every movie night, every time I bent over in front of you?"
"That's not—"
"It's exactly what it is." She squeezed. I gasped. "Your father is a good man. A kind man. A weak man. He can give me his name, his money, his house. But he can't give me this."
She stroked me through my pants. Right there, in the hallway, while my father danced with his new wife's aunt.
"You will," she said. "Whenever I want. However I want. Because you don't have a choice."
I should have said no.
I should have pushed her away, told my father, ended whatever this was before it started.
I said: "Yes."
She smiled.
"Good boy."
Week One
Dad leaves for Tokyo on Monday.
Two weeks. Business trip. He kisses Regina goodbye at the door, claps my shoulder, tells me to take care of her.
"Oh, he will," Regina says. Her hand brushes my ass as he turns away. "He takes very good care of me."
The door closes. The car pulls away.
She turns to face me.
"Bedroom. Now."
I follow.
She doesn't undress herself.
That's my job, she explains. Every time. I kneel before her—she insists on kneeling—and remove each piece of clothing like I'm unwrapping something sacred.
Her blouse first. Buttons undone slowly, carefully. Beneath it, a bra that struggles to contain her breasts—massive, heavy, the size of my head each. I unhook it, and they spill free.
"Kiss them."
I do. Worship them. Take each nipple in my mouth while she strokes my hair like I'm a pet. She moans softly, but she doesn't lose control. She never loses control.
"Lower."
I kiss down her belly—soft, rolling, so much flesh beneath my lips. I unzip her skirt, let it fall. Her panties are already wet; I can smell her arousal, thick and musky.
"Take them off. With your teeth."
I do. She steps out of them, stands before me completely naked. Three hundred pounds of curves and power, looking down at me with something between affection and contempt.
"Now make me come."
I eat her for an hour.
She doesn't let me stop. Every time I slow down, she grabs my hair and pulls me deeper. Every time I think she's finished, she demands more.
"Again."
I lose count of her orgasms. Three, four, five. She floods my face, my mouth, my chin. She grinds against me until my jaw aches, my tongue cramps, my entire world narrows to the taste and feel of her.
"Good boy." She pulls me up finally. My face is soaked. "You learn quickly."
"Please—" I'm so hard it hurts. "Can I—"
"Can you what?"
"Fuck you. Please."
She laughs. Not cruel—amused. Like I've said something funny.
"You'll fuck me when I decide you've earned it." She pushes me onto the bed. Straddles my face again. "You haven't earned it yet."
Week Two
She uses me every day.
Morning, she wakes me with her weight on my face. I eat her to orgasm before I'm allowed to shower, dress, think.
Evening, she has me worship her body for hours. Kiss every inch. Tell her she's beautiful. Beg for permission to touch myself.
She never grants it.
"You come when I say," she reminds me. "Not before."
By day ten, I'm delirious. Desperate. I'd do anything she asked.
She knows.
"Tonight," she says on day eleven. "If you're good."
I'm good.
She ties me to the bed.
Wrists and ankles, spread-eagle, helpless. She takes her time—teasing me with her mouth, her hands, her breasts. Bringing me to the edge and stopping. Over and over.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You."
"Who controls your pleasure?"
"You do."
"And who controls your pain?"
"You." I'm shaking. Tears in my eyes. "Please, Regina. Please."
"Please what?"
"Please let me inside you. Please let me come. I'll do anything—"
She straddles me. Positions herself. Sinks down slowly.
The feeling is indescribable. Tight, wet, burning hot. Her massive body engulfs me, her breasts swaying as she starts to ride.
"You don't come until I say." She moves faster. "Understand?"
"Yes—fuck—yes—"
She rides me for what feels like hours. Uses me for her pleasure—one orgasm, two, three—while I fight to hold back. The restraints dig into my wrists. My entire body is on fire.
"Please—" I'm sobbing now. "I can't—"
"You can." She squeezes around me. "And you will."
Finally, finally, she leans down. Her breasts smother my face. Her lips brush my ear.
"Now," she whispers. "Come for me now."
I explode.
It's like nothing I've ever felt. Like every orgasm I've ever had compressed into one moment. I scream into her flesh, pump into her, shake and sob and break apart completely.
She holds me through it. Strokes my hair. Whispers praise.
"Good boy. Such a good boy."
Month One
Dad comes home.
Everything is normal. I call her Regina. She calls me by my name. We eat dinner together, watch TV together, play the roles we're supposed to play.
At night, when Dad is asleep, she comes to my room.
"Quiet," she whispers. "He's just down the hall."
She rides me in silence—or as close to silence as we can manage. Her hand over my mouth to muffle my moans. My hands on her hips, gripping hard enough to bruise.
We come together, as quiet as we can, while my father sleeps thirty feet away.
"Same time tomorrow," she says, climbing off me. "And the next day. And the day after that."
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She smiles. Kisses my forehead.
"You're learning."
Year One
I've stopped pretending this is temporary.
I'm hers. Completely, irrevocably hers. She's trained me—conditioned me—to need her approval, her touch, her permission. I can't even jerk off without her say-so anymore; my body doesn't respond without her command.
Dad still doesn't know. He sees a loving wife, a respectful stepson, a functional family.
He doesn't see what happens when he travels. The bruises she leaves. The marks she makes me hide. The way she uses my body like it belongs to her—because it does.
"I love you," she says one night. We're in her bed—Dad's bed—while he's in Singapore.
I freeze. She's never said that before.
"Not like a mother loves a son." She strokes my face. "Not like a wife loves a husband. Like an owner loves what's hers."
"I love you too."
"I know." She pulls me on top of her. "Now show me."
I fuck her the way she's taught me.
Slow at first. Worshipful. Every thrust a declaration of surrender. Her body yields to mine, all that softness swallowing me whole.
"Harder."
I obey. Always obey. Slam into her until the bed shakes, until she screams into the pillow, until we're both dripping with sweat.
"Who do you belong to?"
"You. Only you."
"Forever?"
"Forever."
She comes with my name on her lips. I follow her over, spilling everything I am into her.
Afterward, she holds me against her breasts. I feel like a child. I feel like a possession. I feel like exactly what she made me.
"Your father wants to take me to Europe next month," she murmurs. "Three weeks."
"Three weeks without you—"
"No." She tilts my chin up. "Three weeks where you wait for me. Untouched. Desperate. Ready to worship me properly when I return."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And when I come back?"
"I'm yours. Whatever you want."
She smiles. That knowing, owning smile.
"You're already whatever I want. You have been since the wedding."
I know.
That's the terrifying part.
I wouldn't have it any other way.