The sacred cycle shouldn't be broken...
Desire, for me, is never accidental. It never has been. Not in the last two decades.
It is designed. Created. And I have always loved the process. I find it therapeutic. Like meditation.
Not manufactured with cold precision, but composed like a slow-burning symphony— every glance deliberate, every silence intentional, every touch arriving seconds later than she can bear.
The build begins long before my hands ever reach her.
I see the scene clearly in my mind first. That may be my only real superpower.
The seduction begins quietly— inside conversation, inside notes exchanged beforehand, inside metaphors chosen carefully enough to linger in her thoughts long after reading them.
Because anticipation is its own form of possession.
The mind opens first. The body follows after. Helplessly.
A seduction of her mind by mine. Mastermind.
I want her suspended there— between curiosity and surrender, between ache and fulfillment— feeling herself unravel beyond expectation, beyond memory, beyond what she thought possible with me or with anyone before me.
Then comes the prelude. The ritual of control and trust.
The blindfold sharpening every breath. The collar fastened slowly at her throat like a vow spoken without words. The restraint of wrists not to imprison, but to heighten awareness— to let sensation bloom unchecked across her skin.
And through it all, the architecture of my desire.
The planning. The precision. The private question that always lingers beneath it:
Have I designed this well enough?
That doubt never leaves entirely. She never sees it.
What she sees is certainty. Control. Confidence steady enough for her to surrender into completely.
So I tell her what I want. What I imagine. What I could do to her.
Not every fantasy meant to become action, because sometimes imagination leaves marks deeper than touch ever could.
I crave the moment she stops anticipating and simply feels.
The moment thought dissolves. The moment instinct overtakes language. The moment surrender becomes complete.
To be inside her desire so fully there are no boundaries left to define.
But the erotic edge does not end there for me. It deepens afterward.
Because aftercare is not separate from desire. It is the final movement of it.
The trembling quiet after intensity. Her body folded against mine. Our breathing uneven in the dark. That sacred pause where dominance softens into devotion.
And then comes the cleansing.
Not erasure. Never denial.
I do not wash her to forget what passed between us. I wash her to honour it.
Warm water sliding over flushed skin. My hands slower now. Reverent now. As though I am discovering her again after having undone her completely.
The shower becomes its own awakening— heat, steam, fingertips, her body responding differently now: more open, more tender, more aware.
Then the tub.
Intensity dissolving into quiet intimacy. Her body resting against mine, eyes half-closed, hovering somewhere between exhaustion and renewed hunger, while I cleanse her with the same attention I used to unravel her.
That is the moment I crave most.
Not merely the collision of bodies, but the reawakening after.
The return of her gaze. The slow inhale. The subtle shift beneath my hands when desire begins rising again from the calm.
As though surrender itself has become foreplay once more.
The sacred cycle— claiming, cleansing, awakening— should never be broken.
