#kinkthoughts

Perhaps it is a ballet-themed doll.

A leather-wearing biker king kinda thing.

A muscular, thong-clad, bowtie-wearing beach hunk servant.

And then just turning to whoever transformed me.

Tell me what you expect of me. Not to control me, but to cradle me.

I don’t want freedom—I want direction. I want ritual. Rhythm. Something that wraps around me like rope, like rules I’m desperate to obey. Because when you give me structure, I stop unraveling. My body softens. My mind hushes. I stop performing and start belonging.

I want to know the words you like to hear and when to say them. I want to know where my knees go, how long to hold eye contact, when I’m allowed to whimper. I want your rules to live in my body. I want to break apart in the places you’ve told me it’s safe to.

And when I do it right—when I serve well, kneel properly, ache exactly how you want me to? That’s when I shine. That’s when I feel owned in the most sacred way. Not because you took me, but because I offered myself fully and you knew what to do with me.