You will submit,
like a good girl does—
not from fear,
but from that slow, aching trust
that builds
when the body knows
it’s finally been seen.

You will offer yourself
in the quiet way
only the brave do—
eyes open,
breath trembling,
ready for whatever I ask,
whatever I take.

I will break you gently,
piece by piece,
with words you’ve been waiting
your whole life to hear,
with hands that know
how to demand
and still adore.

You will open for me,
sweet and shameless,
a beautiful giving,
without need for permission,
without need for rescue.

You will fall,
not because you are weak,
but because you have found
someone who knows
how to catch you,
and how to make you want
to fall again,
and again,
until surrender
is the only language you speak.

Good girl.
My girl.
The only truth
that matters now.

You are my calm,
baby—
the quiet breath
beneath all this noise,
the stillness
I sink into
when the world
asks too much.

Your voice
slows the spinning.
Your touch
reminds me
that not everything
needs to be fought.

When my mind runs,
you don’t chase it.
You just wait—
open, patient,
like a shoreline
I can always
return to.

And I do.
God, I do.

I bring you
my tired hands,
my restless thoughts,
my ache to be held
without having to explain.

And you take it all
without flinching.
You never ask me
to be more
than what I am
in that moment.

Thank you,
for being the quiet
in my storm,
the hush
in my blood,
the only place
that ever felt
like peace.

There are mirrors
and then there is you—
arched in light,
dripping in want,
your body unfolding
like a secret
I get to tell
again and again.

We fuck
where the walls
can’t look away.
Every angle of us—
visible,
honest,
magnified.
Your eyes locked on mine
through the glass,
while your mouth
utters things
meant only
for the dark.

You ride me
like you want to be seen.
Like you want to watch
yourself come undone.
And I let you.
God, I let you.

I see the way
you study the rise of your hips,
the rhythm,
the chaos,
the elegance of need
performed in silver.

The mirror tells no lies—
it shows every grip,
every tremble,
every mark I leave
when I lose myself
in the way you look
when you’re finally
free.

And when we finish,
we stay there,
watching our ruin,
watching our love
as it smolders
in the quiet
reflection
of who we really are
when no one’s pretending.

I used to make plans
like a man walking alone,
always forward,
never quite arriving.
But then
you happened—
not like thunder,
but like a slow sunrise
I almost missed
by looking elsewhere.

Now,
everything includes you.
The quiet morning coffee,
the late-night ache in my chest,
the dreams I no longer tell myself
to keep small.

You’re there
in the music I hum
without thinking,
in the space beside me
that only feels like home
when you fill it.

Even the hard days—
they soften
because I know
your voice will meet me there,
somewhere in the middle,
calling me back.

So if I say life,
know I mean you too.
Every breath I take
was made
to be taken
with you in it.

Sex with you
rewrites everything I thought I knew—
a fever dream I never want to wake from,
a rhythm I feel days after you’ve gone quiet.

You—
my personal porn star,
but real,
alive beneath me,
eyes wild,
mouth parted,
moving like you were made
to be watched
and touched
and ruined
just by my hands.

You don’t perform,
you possess—
the way you take me in
like you own the moment,
like my body’s just one more thing
you’ve decided to master tonight.

The sounds you make
loop through my mind
like a favorite scene
I keep replaying,
slow motion,
every breath,
every filthy syllable
etched in heat.

There are no cameras here.
No audience.
Just the way you arch your back
when I hit the right spot,
the way your fingers claw at the sheets
like you’re trying to stay tethered
to something real.

You are the only show I crave—
raw, relentless,
mine.
And when it’s over,
I want it again.
And again.
And again.

There’s a broken record
turning slowly in my mind,
a relentless repetition
of your moans,
soft and breathless,
like music from a distant room.

Each sigh, each gasp,
plays again
in restless darkness—
echoes circling endlessly,
sweet agony pressed deep
into memory’s groove.

I can’t silence it,
can’t lift the needle
from these tender sounds—
your pleasure haunts me
like a whispered hymn
I was never meant to forget.

Night after night,
your voice fills
the empty hours,
this beautiful torture
spinning slowly,
reminding me
of every moment
I made you tremble,
and every reason
I crave to hear it again.

My body aches
with quiet desperation,
waiting, restless,
for the relief of your hands,
your whispered heat
against the solitude of my skin.

In your absence,
every breath becomes longing,
every heartbeat a slow reminder
of how sweetly you break me,
how tenderly you restore me
with the gentle violence
of your touch.

This ache grows louder
in the hollow spaces of my chest,
in every empty place
where your lips
once left poetry
pressed softly
into my flesh.

Tonight,
my body calls your name
in silence,
aching deeply,
waiting only for the moment
your touch
returns home.

When it seems
our love has cracked,
I hold each fragment
like fragile glass,
turning it slowly
in uncertain hands,
wondering if it can
ever be whole again.

In these quiet fractures,
I find memories—
your laughter,
my whispered promises,
the sighs we exchanged
in darkness,
now caught between splinters
of what we were.

Yet in this brokenness,
something tender remains:
the faint echo
of your touch,
the lingering warmth
where we once pressed close.

Perhaps love
was never meant
to remain untouched,
but to fracture softly,
to let the light
pass through its cracks—
revealing how deeply,
how imperfectly,
we’ve loved.

Marks

Tonight,
I will paint
my name
on your flesh
with the firm language
of an open palm.

Every stroke,
a careful confession—
each strike a secret
pressed into skin,
slowly blooming
into tender shades
of surrender.

I’ll mark you
with deliberate care,
the sting a promise,
the heat a memory
written in the quiet blush
of your curves.

You’ll tremble
beneath my touch,
each slap echoing
the silent trust between us,
your body speaking
what your lips
cannot say.

And when
at last I stop,
you’ll wear
these sweet marks
like hidden poetry,
a whispered reminder
of pleasure,
of belonging,
of the beautiful ache
we share
in darkness.