If she whispers slower when you’re losing control—she’s not being gentle… she’s in charge. The words curl around your ear like smoke, deliberate and slow, each syllable a pinprick that grounds you when your pulse is roaring in your ears. You’d mistaken it for kindness at first, the way she eases the pace, her palm warm against your chest as if steadying you. But then you notice the tilt of her chin, the flicker in her eyes that says she knows exactly what she’s doing—how your breath hitches when she drags a finger down your spine, how you lean into her voice like a moth to flame.
Her thumb brushes your lower lip, not to soothe but to command, and you realize this slowness is a cage, gilded but unyielding. She could rush, could let the momentum carry you both away, but she chooses not to. Instead, she lingers on every gasp, every stutter of your heartbeat, as if cataloging the ways she can unravel you. When you try to speed things up, her grip tightens just enough to remind you—no. This is her rhythm now, her rules, and you’re learning to dance to it whether you want to or not.
The room feels too hot, the air thick with the scent of jasmine and sweat, but her voice stays cool, measured, each “wait” and “slowly” a thread she weaves into a net. You’re not losing control despite her—you’re losing it because of her, because she’s decided you will, because she’s the one holding the reins. And when she finally leans in, her lips brushing yours as she says, “There you go,” you understand: gentleness was never the point. Power was.