#submissivewriting

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.

There’s something about being on my knees for him that unravels me in all the right ways. It starts with the look—when he tilts my chin up and his eyes soften, even as he calls me his needy little bitch. That mix of control and care does something to me. It doesn’t feel like being humiliated. It feels like being seen. Like I’m being ruined in the exact way I want to be, and held through it.

When my hands are bound behind me, there’s nothing I can do but stay there, still and waiting. And I want to be there. I want to lean into his palm like it’s the only thing tethering me to the ground. It’s not about weakness—it’s about trust. That’s where I feel safe. That’s where I feel wanted. Not just used, but chosen. Not just craved, but kept.

Even in the dirtiest moments, there’s something tender in the way he sees me. He doesn’t look away when I break. He drinks it in like it’s beautiful. Like I’m beautiful.