She doesn’t count days.
She counts bruises—
the ones that fade too fast
and the ones that linger where he touched her
hardest.
Where she broke prettiest.

He never left her.
Not really.
She still feels the leash coiled tight
around the base of her spine,
still hears the echo of his voice
like a pulse between her legs.

She doesn’t need to be reminded
that she’s his.
Her body remembers.
Her breath hesitates,
waiting for his permission,
even in silence.

She aches in ways
he will never know.
Ways she’ll never speak.
Because it’s not her place
to beg for what isn’t hers to take.

He left no promises,
just fingerprints.
And those were enough—
until they weren’t.

Now her hands shake
trying not to touch
what only he should claim.
Her thighs stay parted
from muscle memory alone.
Her mind won’t stop kneeling.

She doesn’t want comfort.
She wants the choke of his hand—
not for punishment,
but possession.
The slow, unforgiving reminder
that she breathes because he allows it.

He doesn’t know
what he leaves in her wake.
Doesn’t know that she curls into herself
at night,
grinding against the emptiness
just to feel the shape of his absence.

He doesn’t need to know.
She’ll suffer sweetly for him.
She always has.

And when he returns,
she won’t ask for affection.
She won’t need words.
She’ll simply offer herself,
open, trembling, aching—
the way he likes her best.

© Wynter Rayne 2025. All rights reserved.