She says,
“Kneel.”
And I do.
Not because I must,
but because I’ve been waiting
for someone who knows how to ask for me
like this.
Her voice is the low hum of stormclouds.
The warning.
The permission.
She doesn’t touch me yet.
She studies.
Like I’m something worth learning slowly.
Something with layers.
Secrets.
Locks she intends to open
one at a time.
I feel her eyes between my thighs
before her fingers ever arrive.
Every second stretches—
long and hot and holy.
Like a breath held just before a moan.
Like waiting to be unmade.
She doesn’t need to raise her voice.
Her silence says,
“Don’t move.”
And I don’t.
My hips ache with the weight of yes.
My mouth is full of please.
I tilt,
I open,
I offer—
like a door left unlocked
on purpose.
She slides two fingers
under my chin
and says,
“Good girl.”
And I swear
I come apart
without even being touched.
Because it’s not the act—
it’s the authority.
The gaze that holds me in place.
The knowing.
The patience.
The way she waits
until I’m shaking
just to whisper,
“Now.”
And when she finally takes—
my breath,
my posture,
my name—
I bloom
exactly where she breaks me.
