You say my name like it’s a warning, low and deliberate, each syllable dragging heat down my spine.

I’m not allowed to look at you— not yet. You want me waiting, kneeling, bare, with nothing but your voice to clothe me in need.

You circle me like a predator with time, fingers grazing my shoulder, my neck, the curve of my breast— never quite touching, just enough to make me ache for the permission I haven’t earned.

“Stay still,” you whisper, and I do— but my body betrays me, hips shifting, thighs parting, breath catching on the edge of a moan I’m not allowed to release.

You laugh, soft and cruel, because you know how close I am to breaking.

Your hand slides down my back, slow as honey, until it rests just above where I burn. You don’t move. You don’t speak. You let the silence do the teasing.

I whimper. You tighten your grip. “Not yet,” you say, and I swear I could come from those two words alone.

You make me beg— not with words, but with every tremble, every gasp, every desperate tilt of my hips toward yours.

And when you finally touch me, it’s not gentle. It’s not kind. It’s everything I’ve been denied— rough, deep, deliciously cruel.

You take me like you own me, like you’ve waited just long enough to make me forget who I was before your hands rewrote me.

And when I fall apart, you hold me there— on the edge, in the dark, where obedience becomes worship and surrender feels like salvation.