It begins so softly, doesn’t it?
Not even a touch—just the hush of a thought
you almost believe was yours.
Her breath catches.
Heat gathers low,
a current she doesn’t choose,
yet already moves with.

That flicker of warmth—
like fire kindling in a place she forgot was cold.
That shiver in her breath—
like invisible fingers tracing lower,
lower,
finding the place between her thighs
that was already waiting.

It spreads slowly,
like shadows sliding across her skin.
Yes, she feels it.
Yes, it builds.
Yes, she lets it.
Because how could she not?

A quiver in her thighs.
A pulse skipping in her chest.
Tiny, but undeniable.

It sharpens,
and just as she leans into it—
silence.
Gone.

The echo of emptiness
louder than any sound.

Strange, isn’t it?
The less she has,
the more she wants.
The more she pretends to resist,
the deeper she leans in.
And isn’t resistance
its own kind of yes?

It returns sharper,
like lightning threading her belly,
tightening everything it touches.

Her hips shift before she knows it—
seeking.

And then—
emptiness again.
The ache unfinished,
cut short.

And that’s when the confusion begins:
was it placed inside her,
or drawn out of her?
Was she giving,
or being taken?

It hardly matters.
Both feel the same.
Both end the same.
Both pull her deeper.

It crashes heavier now,
thick as molten honey.
Her chest swells.
Her thighs tremble open.
Her lips part in silent need.

And she reaches—
but it slips.
Gone.
Hollow again.

And here—
it changes.

Because it isn’t “her” anymore,
is it?
It’s you.

You’re the one quivering.
You’re the one trembling.
You’re the one aching in the hollow
where the wave just was.

And the more you notice,
the less you can deny.
The more you deny,
the more you feel.

Now every inch of you restless.
Every nerve awake.
Every breath incomplete.

The tether tightens.
Not chains.
Not force.
Your own longing,
binding you closer.

And just as you begin to give—
emptiness again.
The ache ripped away.

Yes—you felt it.
Yes—you leaned into it.
Yes—you’re already giving.

But the cruelest part is this:
you’re the one prolonging it.
You’re the one tormenting yourself.
You’re the one keeping back
what you already know you want.

It tears through you,
merciless,
fire in every vein.

Your body bows to it.
Your thighs clench.
Your breath stumbles into gasps.
Your lips part for something
you can’t stop.

And then—
collapse.
Nothing again.

And isn’t that the cruelest bind?
The more it vanishes,
the more you crave it.
The emptiness worse than the flood.

And you wonder—
why aren’t you already his?
Why wait,
when waiting is the torment?

The rhythm undeniable now.
Pull.
Release.
Return.
Pull.
Release.
Return.

Like waves breaking against you,
dragging you under
whether you resist or not.

And here it is clear:
choice never existed.
Delay was the only cruelty.

Yes—you see it.
Yes—you feel it.
Yes—you know the truth.

And still—
you wait.
You prolong.
You ache.

Why torment yourself
with delay,
when you already are
what you pretend not to be?

The last wave swallows everything.

Hotter.
Deeper.
Quivering through every nerve.
Your body arches,
ready,
aching.

And in that inevitability,
you know:

It was never him prolonging this.
It was you.

Every second of waiting—self-inflicted.
Every delay—self-chosen torment.

And the only freedom left
is to stop waiting.
To stop pretending.
To give yourself to what you already are.

And later—
you’ll remember.

The first stirring.
The spark that bit.
The floods.
The hollows.
The breaking.
The collapse.
The final wave.

And as you remember,
you’ll feel them again.
The quiver.
The heat.
The hollow.
The ache.
The flood.

As if it never left.
As if you’re still inside it.
As if you always will be.

Because wasn’t that the truth?
You never did leave.
You never will.

And each time you return,
it will only be deeper.
Until you stop asking why—
and start admitting what you already know.

You are his.
You always were.
And now—
you want to be.

 

Some yesses echo louder than screams.