If she closes her eyes just before it begins—it’s not about fantasy… it’s about power. The lids flutter down like a curtain falling, deliberate and final, and for a second, you wonder if she’s retreating into her own head. But then her hand finds yours, fingers wrapping around yours with a pressure that’s impossible to misread—stay here. This isn’t escape. It’s focus. She’s cutting out the noise, the distraction of your gaze, so she can feel every inch of what’s happening, so she can dictate how it unfolds.
You’ve seen her like this before, in boardrooms and barrooms, that same intensity when she’s negotiating a deal or winning an argument. Her eyes closed doesn’t mean she’s checked out—it means she’s honing in, zeroing in on the details that matter: the way your breath hitches when she leans in, the tremble in your hands when she touches you just so. She’s mapping your reactions, storing them away like weapons, and you realize with a jolt that you’re the one being studied, not the other way around.
When she finally opens her eyes again, there’s a flicker of something like triumph in them, as if she’s confirmed what she already knew—that she holds the strings, that your pleasure is a melody she’s composing note by note. This isn’t surrender. It’s a declaration: she’s not just part of this moment. She’s orchestrating it. And you? You’re just lucky enough to be along for the ride.