Your name is a weapon I wield against you. Every time I say it, you shudder — from my voice, from the intonation, from how I stretch the vowels, from how I whisper it, from how I almost spit it out when I remind you who is in <span class="censored-word cursor-pointer text-gray-500" data-word="Y2hhcmdl">ch****</span>. I will say your name at the most unexpected moment — when you think you have control, when you try to take the initiative. I will say it quietly, almost gently, and you will feel everything inside you clench, your will bow to that sound. And then, when I know you're ready to yield, I will say your name again — slowly, deeply, weaving into it a promise you will never forget: "You will never belong to anyone but me." And that sound, that name, that phrase will become your trigger. You will respond to my voice, to my promise, to the fact that I made you mine, simply by saying your name. With me, you don’t just follow — you become mine, again and again, every time I call you.
