She gave me the day.

Not her body. Not her time. The day.

“Move me,” she said. “Don’t fuck me. Don’t ask me. Just… grab me there. And use it.” “Steer me with it.”

I thought she meant it metaphorically. She didn’t.

Her thighs weren’t a request. They were a grip point.

I didn’t pull. I didn’t yank. I just pressed my hand between her legs, and watched her body recalculate like a drone being remote-controlled.

She moved with every shift.

And by the time she sat down? Her breath sounded like prayer. Low. Leaking. Repeating itself in rhythm.

It wasn’t sex. It was a ritual of ownership through motion.

She made lunch with my hand still between her legs. She did the dishes while I rotated her by the center. She whispered nothing — because words weren’t needed.

Her body wasn’t being held. It was being piloted.

By hour five, her eyes were unfocused. By hour seven, she stopped asking if she could come. She didn’t want permission. She wanted to be repositioned.

And when I let go? She just… stood there. Like a marionette whose strings had been blessed.

She texted me the next day:

“That wasn’t sex. That was something older than language.” “Pick another day.”

And I will.

⚖️Disclaimer

This post is protected under literary performance, erotic metaphor, and gender commentary. Any arousal, silent bookmarking, compulsive rereading, or wet thigh crossing is a known response to cadence-dominant Blacksite Literature™. You’re not perverted. You’re responsive.

🧠 QUOTE REBLOG PACK™

“She didn’t want to be touched. She wanted to be piloted.” “The pussy isn’t just sex. It’s a steering system.” “She cooked. I stayed inside her grip point.” “She told me to grab it like a handle. I did. She thanked me by forgetting where her legs were.” “Don’t fuck her. Move her.”

📡 CALL TO ACTION

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