my7pleasures

[my7pleasures]

To break,but not let be fallen apart.

[my7pleasures]

#my post

[my7pleasures]

[my7pleasures]

She deserves to be more than...

Do not lay her on a shelf, a mere ornament for passing eyes. Draw her close. Open her slowly, let her spine sigh beneath your fingers.

Caress each page, linger in the folds, trace the curves of her sentences as if mapping the secret landscape of her skin. Taste the ink of her stories, let her words melt on your lips, burning softly into memory.

Feel the tremor in her margins, the pulse beneath her punctuation, the shiver of a paragraph not yet spoken. Slide your hands between her lines, read the warmth hiding in her whitespace, decipher the hush that only you can hear.

Turn her slowly, press your palm to the curve of her chapters, let her breath mingle with yours in the silence between each syllable. Do not rush. Immerse yourself. Drink in the rhythm of her sentences, the swell of her paragraphs, the slow, exquisite unfolding of her secrets.

Study her. Touch her. Become lost in the intimacy of her pages, until she is no longer a book— but a living, breathing story written just for you.

[my7pleasures]

[my7pleasures]

[my7pleasures]

As I look back on my life, I realize that every time I thought I was being rejected from something good, I was actually being re-directed to something better.

[my7pleasures]

[my7pleasures]

[my7pleasures]

No one has ever seen her truly naked. Not Yet.

Not the way the soul bares itself— bleeding, unguarded. Some have caught glimpses— a tremor in her laugh, a wound behind her gaze, a truth moaning— just beneath the lie.

They came for the body— for the curve of her spine in half-light, the gasp between her thighs, the heat, the hunger, the exquisite ruin all in one beautiful, but (still) unopened package.

Many devoured her skin with trembling mouths, left their names on her neck in bruises, traced her edges like thieves in the dark.

But when her veil lifted—just slightly— when her aches turned inward, raw, real, truthful… when her soul began to open, trembling, raw— most turned away.

Nudity was easy. It was performance. She knew how to strip— to tease, seduce, invite. But they didn’t come inside Because they didn’t know how. But her real nakedness— the dark, holy kind, all sharp corners and softness and scars— was never for the weak. It was not something you touched. It was something that touched you back.

Yes, She hasn’t been truly naked for anyone. Yet.

[my7pleasures]

Submission is a gift. Gift carefully.

She comes to him bare— not just in flesh, but in soul. A sacred offering, trembling between reverence and desire.

He does not ask. He hungers. The truth: he doesn’t know how to ask. There is a void in him— not empty, but waiting. A wild, howling silence only her surrender can still.

She feels it— that gnawing ache behind his eyes, the beast beneath his skin that needs not love, but yielding.

She gives. Not as a gift wrapped in weakness— but a raw, primal, truthful blood-hot answer to the question— his body never dared speak.

He takes. And in that taking, claims more than skin, more than power— he claims truth. His truth.

The kind that moans. The kind that thrusts. The kind that bares its throat because it wants to be known.

She gifts with pure heart. He fills the hollow with her cries, her obedience, her unspoken yes.

And she— she burns. Willing pyre to his darkness. Purity, not in chastity, but in need.

That is submission: not soft. Not silent. But feral. But holy. The gift that completes— his desire, his ache, His Need for Dominance.

[my7pleasures]

His hint, his belt...

His belt on a chair— not flung, but placed, a pause between intent and act.

No words, no touch, just leather draped like a promise, silent and sure.

She sees it— and steps closer, not to ask, but to answer.

[my7pleasures]

∞

[my7pleasures]

#my post

[my7pleasures]

💜🖤

[my7pleasures]

Know the difference...

[my7pleasures]