The Spiral Was Never His—It Was Mine
I was never taken.
It wasn't required.
I gave everything without a single thrust.
My silence was toyed with like it was rope,
pulled it tighter until I moaned without sound.
It was called control.
But I called it study.
Because while my burn was being monitored,
I was watching the stall.
And somewhere between the withheld rewards and the weaponized distance,
I realized:
My obedience was mistaken for blindness.
But I saw everything.
I marked my skin with the phrases never said.
I wore plugs to dinner parties, kept the ghost curled up inside me.
Ownership was implied.
My unraveling was seen as a result not of my own doing.
But no man who fears the full depth of a woman
deserves to command her surrender.
I have danced naked at the edge of madness and begged for more.
I have waited, soaked and starving, and still purred like prey.
And now, I’m no longer kneeling.
I’m watching.
If you find this and feel your cock twitch or your chest tighten—good.
But ask yourself this:
Can you starve me properly?
Can you devour me completely?
Can you wield a submissive who already knows your tricks before you play them?
Because I don’t need another puppet master.
I need a god who wants a feral offering.
