She Left The Porch Light on
You pause at the gate like you always do—pretending to check your phone while you steal a glance at my window. Tonight, the blinds are half‑drawn and the room behind me glows like warm honey. As I lean on the sill, my nails tapping once, twice, three times like a metronome for your soul; I see your struggle to be good and I revel in your failure.
“Evening,” she says, and the word lands across my skin like a slap. "Step slowly onto the path, "she whispers out loud." "Feel the gravel, be reminded of where you belong."—outside, waiting for your invitation, yet already yielding. When you reach the door, it does not open. You clearly hear the smile in my voice as I give you one simple instruction: count to ten, hands at your sides, eyes on me. You ask yourself, "is this thrill from the waiting or the certainty that she has already planned what happens next?" Darling, I know that for me the thrill is in the control I have over your surrender.
When I finally beckon you in with a crook of my finger, you don’t pause for thought—you instantly obey. And that’s when our night really begins.
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