“I want to serve you and your alpha,” you say.
And I cackle. Because what makes you think I’d let any man dominate me?
He is not my alpha. He is my first and best worshipper.
The one who lays his head in my lap and feels my fingernails against his scalp. Who hears me command “rest” and falls asleep in my arms.
The one who texts me begging to clean up my house after girls night.
The one who first put on a collar. Who sits at my feet.
He is the little spoon twice my size, my tall, masculine puppy, the chosen one precisely because he doesn’t try to perform society’s ideas about alpha masculinity.
He doesn’t need to. He’s secure. Himself. Held. Known.
Worshipper. Pet. Lover. Loved.
He is the one women trust because they know I wouldn’t allow toxicity in my sacred space.
And he is the one in my sacred space. Eating strawberries from my garden. Laughing at my jokes in person. Whispering his truths with a head on my chest. Giving me his full weight and knowing I will not be crushed by it. Feeling my foot hook around his head, my breasts pressed against his chest, my teeth on his lips.
He may be your alpha. He may be your king. He may be your goal. The one you aspire to.
But he is not my alpha. He is simply mine.
And when I cuck you, you will know where the power rests.
It is not with any man.