She doesn’t walk. She arrives.
Air bends. Time holds.
My pulse answers Hers before I even move.
Mistress Velvetsin,
my undoing wrapped in command,
wearing silence like a weapon.
One glance and I sink,
knees bruised with purpose,
breath caught between worship and want.
Her fingers, unhurried,
trail like fire across my hunger,
never touching where I ache the most.
She speaks Her name,
and it becomes my prayer.
My world contracts around
Her boots, Her voice, Her grip on the back of my neck.
I offer everything.
She takes only what breaks me perfectly.
She feeds me obedience in slow, measured doses,
tongue teased on the edge of cruelty,
pleasure granted only when I shatter for Her.
“Not yet,” She purrs,
and my body, my will, my moans all beg.
She circles me like a storm,
then stills just long enough
to hear me tremble.
And when She finally allows me to come,
it isn’t release.
It’s surrender.
Sacred.
Seared into my bones.
Velvetsin doesn’t love.
She claims.
And I, lucky enough to be owned,
will beg to be broken again.
