HIS CURVY OBSESSION

House

WOW.

It is twenty times larger than my old apartment.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the entire third floor, offering a view of the city that seems to go on for miles. The furniture is sleek, modern, and looks like it costs more than I made in my entire life before meeting him.

Who am I kidding? It does.

I spend the next four hours checking through everything.

The kitchen is stocked with high-end appliances I don't know how to use and ingredients I can't pronounce.

Every drawer in the bedroom is filled with expensive hosiery and lingerie- his preferred barrier between my skin and his hand.

After spending half the night exploring, the sheer, crushing reality of it hits me. I need someone to share this with. I need to scream about it, to dissect it, to logic it out with someone who loves me and won't judge.

And I have... no one.

Can’t talk to my siblings yet. Can’t talk to my parents. I lived with my colleague, Samantha, but we aren't close, and telling her my new apartment is a multi-million dollar skyscraper after two nights of "an arrangement" seems like a quick way to lose that tenuous semi- friendship.

I’m used to it.

As a "fat girl" during my child and teen years, I only had two friends. We fell apart. And since I am still fat but not as obese as I was, I got tired of people telling me to "gym" or "lose weight."

I gained it back in the comfort of the meals I loved here.

So, I text my master. My fingers are flying, a constant stream of consciousness.

I send him a picture of the view from the third floor. I can see into the next building.

Me: Master, I have a neighbor! I think he's a musician; I’ve heard him playing songs since I arrived. Should I be concerned? Or should I be sending you audio clips to critique?

I head back into the apartment and do a walk-through video, focusing on the spaces. The living room is empty. Almost all the rooms.

Me: I have zero furniture and this place is massive. What should I put in here? IDo you have an interior designer on payroll? Or am I allowed to decorate via sss Prime?

Me: Also, the security lock isn't fixed. How do I lock it when going out? Do I need a biometric scan for that, too?

I step out and stop at the four luxury cars in the garage.

Me: I should talk about the cars, but I cannot drive. They are staring at me like four sleek, metallic reminders of my inadequacy. Are you getting me a driver, or am I supposed to take Uber to work from a skyscraper?

It's nine p.m. The bedroom is stocked with a three seater sofa, a massive bed at the center of a round, four stairs convert. Beneath it is rows of led light that shine red.

By the left door is another massive walk-in closet with a bath room that has bath tub facing it.

He never replies to any of them. But I continue, fueled by exhilaration and adrenaline. I take a deep bath, pick up a flare red lace lingerie that pushes up my breasts close to my neck.

Settled, I drop my phone when no reply comes in and I pick up my k****e then pick my phone back up.

I need to figure this out. I need to know how this dynamic works in the real world.

I spend the next two hours on Reddit and different b**m forums.

Q: How to make your Dom Master happy?

A: Be submissive. Dress sexy. Be flexible.

Flexible? That’s concerning. Even if I were slim, I don't think I’d be flexible. I can’t even dance.

But Banks has never minded. He hasn't used most of the toys, but he has used some. Like he’s easing me into it.

I search for books on b**m, Submissive on different book platforms, determined to see how other arrangements played out.

At the end, I settled for his curvy obsession on k****e.

I head to the bathroom and start the tub.

I've only had one when I booked myself hotel to celebrate my graduation.

It's eleven pm but I believe he's still awake, so I send him a short clip of me in bathtub. The bubbles covering my breasts.

Banks is a little like Johnny. He got no problem with me being chubby. If he did, he's not showing it. Instead, I feel more pretty. There's a way he gawk at my body.

While Johnny liked my ass and hips, Banks like my breasts. So I lather it up with foam except a good amount of cleavage, and I send him a video, circling the foam on my n****e and rubbing it.

"You made it sore daddy" I've never called him daddy but he's not here and he hasn't watched any of the videos.

"Bad daddy to a good girl"

I add. Don't blame me. Blame the books I read.

Taking few more shots that I keep for myself. I settle into my book.

Finally, I come out of the tub and toast a bread. Yes, the kitchen is stocked with my favorite cereals and meals.

It is three a.m. when I am finally, unbelievably tired. I am sore, exhausted, and yet my mind won't shut down.

I fall asleep and I fall into a dream.

• Large, rough hands are spreading my thighs. I am too groggy, too sluggish to fight. I smile, knowing it is him.

"Who are you?" I question, my voice thick with sleep.

"Bad daddy." A smile spreads across my face. I grab a fistful of his short hair and come across his intense, brown eyes.

"Sleep, Eleanor. I will be eating for a long time." I nod and lower my head back on the pillow. I am naked under my lingerie, and he tears the fabric apart.

"You smell of my c*m too Anor " Before I could respond. Warm, hot tongue darts around my p***y, teasing without entering and I lift my legs up for easy access, heels pressing into the bed.

He circles my p***y with his tongue, a slow, deliberate torture.

"Master, please…" I moan, wriggling my body closer to his face till I touch the scruffy jaw of his face

"My good girl is a greedy slut" I tighten, my legs closing around his neck, then he spreads them open.

"This belongs to me" Last words as he dip his tongue into my p***y.

"Maaasterr"

"Your p***y belongs to who?"

"To my master."

He shoves something cold into me, and my body freezes in shock, then dissolves in pure pleasure.

SEVEN A.M.

I wake up late. Late for work.

I dart to bathroom but stop when I feel something sticky on my breasts and my lingerie is torn. I check, a little fear gripping me

"It wasn't a dream?" Definitely must be real because I can’t explain the c*m between my thighs or why my mouth feels sore.

He was here? I dart downstairs to the living room.

"Master?"

No response or sign of him. It was a dream? I shake my head and head out.