the art of surrender
i like to say i'm verse, but the truth runs deeper. control isn't always about who's on top. i might be the one receiving, but i don't disappear into it. i guide it. shape it. every touch, every motion, it becomes a dialogue. his wanting, my answering. it's not surrender, exactly. it's a power shift, back and forth, until you can't tell who started leading first.
in my relationship, i'm usually the one who yields. but we've learned that intimacy isn't a fixed script. it's kind of improvisation. and sometimes, when the moment feels right, i rewrite the ending. there's a quiet thrill in catching him off guard, in reminding us both that connection isn't about power, it's about surprise.
i look for cues. a change in his breathing pattern, a shift in his body position. if the physicality sends me a signal, i change my pace. remind him that closeness can still feel new. i'll slip a finger, slow and gentle. let him enjoy the moment. and in due time, my tongue will find its way inside him. a full on cuisine.
it's never about pressure. it's about presence. if he wants it, i'll offer it. all of it. deep inside, until i can't contain it any longer. the demon inside me stirs. it's not rage, it's not a hunger for control, but a quest for balance. i rise to this demon, to meet myself. it's a version of me that doesn't ask for permission, but who finally understands what it means to lead.
when i become the giver, it isn't about power. it's about care. i hold his hand, kiss him, and let him know i'm here. for both of us. every moment becomes a quick check-in. if he flinches, i slow down. if he breathes deeper, i follow through. and when it's over, i find his neck, rest there for a moment, and let my breath say what words can't.