Every ache I give him comes with this truth: I am his.
Middle of summer. Warmer than I expected.
It was the kind of heat that reminded me of childhood—those beach days where the sun burnt the sweat off before it could linger, and the water always felt sharper, cooler, better. It was 3:30 a.m. when we arrived. We'd checked out of the hotel, loaded the car, and drove to our safe place. The beach where clothes didn't matter and freedom kissed your skin like sunlight. Nudity wasn't the thrill. Being seen wasn't the goal. It was just us, stripped of everything except each other.

We set up the new beach hut. Or more accurately, he did, with sandbags and sweat and that focused way he gets when he wants things just right for us. The hut barely mattered. We sprawled out across it, sunburnt and grinning, pizza boxes tossed somewhere off to the side—cold leftovers or not, it didn't matter. The taste wasn't the memory.

The memory was the way the night clung to my skin. The way the waves pulled at the edges of our space. The way he looked at me.

We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t need to.

There in the dunes, R got on top of me. Pressed his leg between mine until my knees gave, until I opened, until I offered myself like I always do—willingly, desperately.

"Spread your legs," he said.

And as the words left his mouth, he kissed me like a man starved. Like he was devouring something that belonged only to him.

I get so wet when he takes control. When he owns the moment like that. There's nothing else—just us. Just our rhythm. Just the thunder inside my body that starts as a whisper and grows into something roaring, ancient, right.

It wasn’t a game.
It wasn’t play.

It was raw.
It was real.
It was us.

We didn't speak for a while after. There wasn’t anything left to say—not because there was nothing to feel, but because we’d already said everything. With breath. With rhythm. With every way two people can speak without words.

His chest pressed into mine, grounding me in the sand. We didn’t care about the grains sticking to our skin or where they might end up. We just held on—tight—as if letting go might send us floating into the sky.

He was still breathing hard, and his eyes never left mine. Not even for a second.

I felt every part of him, and he was part of me.

It sounds like a cliché—but I finally understood what it could feel like to be truly met. To be matched.

Earlier that day, I’d taken a photo from my beach chair—just sand, heat, and the kind of stinging sun that blurs the line between pleasure and pain. The tide had been rolling out then, just as time had started to blur.

Somehow, now, it wasn’t night anymore.
The sun had risen.
There were a few early walkers on the sand—maybe they’d caught a glimpse of us.
Maybe not.

It didn’t matter.

We sat up eventually, just to take in the view.
And the smell. The air was thick with us—the aroma of pleasure still hanging, salty and sharp, sweet and deep.

I saw the look on R's face then—completely satisfied, completely himself. Like a lion after a feast. I’ll never forget it.

And me? I’d changed.

In that moment, I realised we’d both become completely uninhibited—not just in sex, but in trust. In surrender. In truth.

He saw all of me.
And I saw him.
We just… worked.

I was made exactly as I needed to be.
Strong.
Resilient.
Utterly, joyfully obsessed with loving this man.

And in the hush that followed, in the coolness after the heat, I wasn’t just satisfied.

I was whole.

—Own-Li Kitten, March 2025