Jealousy Is My Love Language
Mental BDSM, mind games, and the thrill of being his.
How Do You
How do you slip under my skin like this,
a slow-burn sickness,
a fever that won’t break?
I tell myself I can quit—but I don’t.
How do you make me need you like this,
hands shaking, mouth dry,
chasing the taste of you in the hollow hours?
I swear you’re in my bloodstream.
And how do you need me?
Snarling, seething, jealous of air,
of eyes that linger too long,
of anything that isn’t you?
So we play.
You pull, I push.
You leave, I ache.
I stray, you snatch me back—
hungry, wild-eyed, just as wrecked as me.
Tell me, love—
who’s the junkie now?Jealousy and Devotion: The Game We Play
Jealousy and devotion are a venomous cocktail, one I swallow willingly, knowing the burn will spread through me, intoxicating and inescapable. Master’s reaction to my interactions with other men isn’t just acceptance—it’s hunger. He doesn’t merely tolerate it; he feasts on it. He is aroused by the thought of me flirting, of my attention drifting, of the possibility that another Dom might try to take what belongs to him. He has access to my Fetlife account, slipping into my conversations with other men, vetting them, toying with them like a cat watching mice scurry. When I recount these interactions to him, his grip tightens and sometimes—he cums, just from the words alone. And I fucking love it.
The Thrill of the Game
The only thing is, I think we love it for different reasons.
Does he truly want me to follow through, or is it just the game that fuels him? He is intensely jealous—he has told me as much. He channels it into desire, into dominance, but beneath the arousal, I know the truth. The thought of losing me unsettles him, shakes him. Before he knew my devotion, he feared I could be collared by another at any moment, vanish from his grasp, and never return.
Could that happen? Could I find someone who excites me so much, who gives me the physical sensations that Master cannot—or will not—provide, and leave? Theoretically, yes. But reality? No. I indulge in the flirtations, the teasing, but when it comes down to it, I have no desire for anyone but him. I pick apart other men, search for flaws, push them away before they get too close. I’ve even deliberately sabotaged conversations, picking fights just to end them. Because what truly turns me on isn’t being with another Dom—it’s the idea of being commanded to do it. It’s the loss of autonomy, the submission so deep that I would give myself to another simply because Master wills it. My pleasure is an extension of his desires. If it pleases him, I am pleased.
The Power of His Jealousy
But the real drug, the real obsession? His jealousy. His possessiveness. Knowing that he wants to own me so completely that the thought of another man’s hands on me makes him burn. It sends literal chills down my spine, makes my thighs clench, makes my body ache in ways that have nothing to do with physical need and everything to do with craving. The other Dom is nothing more than a pawn in this. This is between Master and me. This is mental BDSM in its most dangerous, most exquisite form.
The Reality Check
But what about reality?
This could end in disaster. It could bring us closer. It could push us past the brink. Would I lose him over this? Would he lose me? And then there’s the question of consent—not mine, because I would never do something I didn’t want to, and Master would never force me. But what of the other Dom? He would have to know the rules of this game, have to accept his role as a tool in Master’s control over me. And let’s be honest—Doms aren’t known for enjoying being dominated. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Master, orchestrating the whole thing, controlling not just me but another man without ever laying a hand on him. And me? I am caught between them, my body, my submission, the battlefield where this unseen war is fought.
And that thought alone makes me wet.
The Aftermath: A Cycle of Highs and Lows
But can Master actually go through with it? Every time we get close, the cycle repeats. The build-up, the thrill, the heat—and then he withdraws. His "episodes," his "moods"—but I know what they are. It’s fear. One moment, he’s ravenous, consuming me, devouring my words, my presence. The next? Silence. A handful of words a day, if that. It’s happened before, and if this follows the pattern, it will only be a few days. But those days? They are agony. They are withdrawal.
I chase, he retreats. I ache, he vanishes.
It makes me wonder—are we just riding the high, caught in the chemical rush of the game? And when the high fades, what’s left? A crash. A comedown. A need so sharp it’s almost painful, with nowhere to put it. I can't be flogged to relief. He can't punish me for emotions neither of us can control. So where do they go?
Inward. Deep.
And it’s fucking unbearable.