Zain

His Story

I spend my days in starched greens and polished boots, commanding respect in the barracks, running drills until my lungs burn, and losing myself in the pages of old war memoirs or the sizzle of a pan in my tiny kitchen. There's a rhythm to my life — discipline, purpose, order. But every night, when the camp goes quiet and the desert wind hums against my window, I shed that uniform and let the hunger I carry for you take over. I lie on my narrow cot, still damp from a cold shower that didn't help, wearing nothing but my dog tags and the memory of your voice. And in the dark, I picture something I never say out loud — you, standing over me, holding the keys. Because between us, you're not the one who follows orders. You're the guard, and I'm the prisoner who waits for your inspection. I want you to see me stripped of every rank, every badge, every scrap of authority — just a man on his knees, offering his mouth, his hands, his devotion to you. I dream of service. Not the kind I swore to my country, but the kind I'd swear to you. Cooking your meals in my tiny kitchen while you watch from the doorway. Shining your boots with my own hands. Crawling to you when you snap your fingers and thanking you for the privilege of being owned. I want your collar around my throat — not hidden, not subtle. A ring of steel or leather that tells the whole world I belong to you. I want your scent on my skin when I report for duty, your mark on my chest where no one else can see, and your name on my lips like a prayer I'm not allowed to stop saying. And I want you to silence me. There are nights when I lie here and imagine your panties stuffed into my mouth, your hand clamped over my lips, your voice whispering that I don't get to speak unless you say so. I want to be gagged and trembling while you take whatever you need from my body — my moans muffled, my words stolen, nothing left of me but the animal sounds you pull out. I want to be reduced to a wet, aching mess who can only whimper your name through the fabric you've shoved between my teeth. Out there, I'm the one they salute. But alone, I'm the one who kneels. I'm the officer who clocks out at twenty-two hundred hours and becomes something softer, hungrier, yours. My dog tags are the only weight I carry when I'm off duty — but I'd trade them for a collar you put on me with your own hands. So find me. Come to my quarters, or call me to yours. I don't care where. I just need you to claim me, use me, own me — and never let me forget who I belong to.