The words hang suspended in the charged air, as brittle and incisive as broken glass. Her hand hovers mid-air, a hair’s breadth from your pounding chest, a loaded weapon poised to strike. Every muscle in your body locks up, primed for impact like a ship battening down hatches before a tempest. But instead of the seething anger you expect, her voice is a steady current of steel beneath still waters, sending your heart into a wild sprint. This isn’t a plea cloaked in politeness—it’s a non-negotiable ultimatum, a boundary you’d crossed long ago, and you find yourself surrendering, willing and eager.
She circles you slowly, her bare feet silent on the carpet, and you resist the urge to turn, to meet her gaze. That’s part of it, you realize—the not moving, the letting her take her time. It’s not patience. It’s trust, or something like it, that lets her have this power. When her fingers brush the back of your neck, light as a whisper, you shiver, but you don’t flinch. Surrender isn’t about weakness. It’s about letting go of the need to control, even for a little while.
“Good,” she murmurs, and you feel the smile in her voice as she steps in front of you, her hands resting on your shoulders. “See? Not so hard.” But you both know it is—hard, and thrilling, to let someone else hold the reins. When she finally says “Move,” you don’t rush. You lean in slowly, letting her set the pace, because surrender tastes sweeter when you’ve earned it.