Her Wordless Obedience

She doesn’t speak a word of submission.

She doesn’t need to.

From the moment we step inside the café, her entire body shifts.
Her posture softens—but it’s not weakness. It’s surrender. The kind she offers only to me.

She walks a half-step behind me. Not overt, but intentional.
It tells me she’s in her space—that gentle headspace where she’s attuned only to my voice, my presence, my permission.

When we sit, she waits—just long enough—for me to gesture before settling into her seat.

A tiny glance, upward and sideways, barely noticeable to anyone else.
But I see it.
It’s her asking: May I?
I nod. She exhales.

Her fingers trace the condensation on her glass as she listens to me speak.
It’s not idle—it’s grounding. She’s focused, but her world is narrowed. Quieted.

She doesn’t interrupt. Not once.
When she speaks, it’s measured. Thoughtful. Polished—but not performative.
Her tone is soft. Not shy—controlled.

And her eyes—God, those eyes.
They flick to my hands constantly. Watching for a gesture. A signal. A shift in my expression.

She reads me like scripture, and responds with the smallest of things:
—knees pressed a little tighter
—shoulders straighter when I look at her
—a subtle parting of her lips when I mention how she looks

Then there’s her collarbone.
Bare. Exposed beneath the dip of her dress.
She tugs it once—slowly. A silent reminder. I remember who I belong to.

Her coffee arrives.
She stirs it the way I like mine, even though it’s her cup.
Then she pushes it toward me, just a little.
An offering.
I take a sip. She smiles—satisfied, like she’s just pleased me with the smallest act of service.

There’s a moment—quiet but potent—when she shifts in her seat. Crosses her legs, uncrosses them. Her breathing changes.
I know that look.

She’s wet.
From just the tone of my voice and the memory of my hand on her throat the night before.
No one else sees it—but I know every flush in her cheeks, every tension in her thighs.

When I brush my foot against hers beneath the table, she freezes for a breath. Then relaxes into it.

Her Late-Night Invitation

My phone buzzes. Midnight.

Three words on the screen:

“I’m alone.”

A pause. Then another:

“No panties.”

Then one more—

“Door’s unlocked.”

I don’t smile.
I don’t need to.
Because this isn’t an invitation.

It’s a surrender.

She knows what she’s doing—
using words like a leash,
pulling me in from across the city
with that sweet, aching need she only shows me.

I stand.
Grab my keys.
No hesitation.

Because I know what I’ll find:
Her — on the edge of obedience and desperation.

Knees drawn up.
Lips parted.
Pussy wet and waiting like a prayer.

She thinks she’s calling me over.
But really, she’s summoning the storm.

I won’t knock.
I never do.

I’ll walk through that door,
strip the silence from her room,
and remind her who she belongs to.

I’ll bend her over whatever surface is closest.
Sink into her without a word.

Fuck her until she remembers my name in gasps, not sentences.

Because when she says come over,
what she means is—

Take me.
Own me.
Don’t stop until I’m wrecked.

And I will.
Every time.