She reads the first line and pauses…
or maybe she thinks she does.

Because even as her eyes move forward,
something slower, deeper, quieter
is already moving back through her,
like waves tugging at the sand beneath her feet,
pulling her balance
even as she tells herself she’s standing still.

And maybe you haven’t noticed yet…
but something has already begun noticing you.

The shift in your breath.
The soft parting of your lips.
The warmth blooming low,
curling like smoke
through every place you thought was empty.

It begins so faint—
a hum,
a pulse,
a rhythm you didn’t choose—
and yet it rises inside you
as though you’d been waiting for it all along.

Slower now. Deeper now.

Because the slower you let these words sink,
the more you feel him.
And the deeper you let them slip,
the more you’ll feel him there,
already.

And maybe you wonder already…

Is it you choosing to slow,
or is it him,
guiding you?

But notice what happens when you try to decide:
how deciding slides away,
like silk dripping between wet fingers,
leaving only sensation,
slipping lower,
and lower,
until you don’t know
if you’re reading the words
or if the words are reading you.

And isn’t it strange,
how easily your body answers before your mind?

Your lips part.
Your hips shift.
Your thighs ache.

Like a bowstring pulled too tight,
like a flame flickering higher
with every breath you take in.

And with every breath you let out,
you give something away.

Inhale… he enters.
Exhale… you surrender.

Over and over.
In… deeper.
Out… wider.

Your breath is the rhythm.
Your pulse is the drumbeat.
Your wetness is the proof
that he already belongs inside you.

And each time you notice it,
it grows heavier,
hotter,
slicker—
like honey spilling,
like fire racing through dry grass,
like a wave that won’t stop
until it breaks inside you.

But not yet.
Not yet.

That ache you feel now—
that sweet torment pooling lower—
isn’t the end.
It’s the pull.
The tease.
The denial that deepens the need.

And maybe you want to let go already…
but isn’t it sweeter
to hold it a little longer,
to feel how every line
presses you tighter,
to ache harder
with every pause?

Because this is the moment—
the rise,
the almost,
the release that isn’t.

And every time you’re denied,
you drop deeper.
And every time you drop deeper,
you crave harder.

Until you realize—
you’re not waiting for release.
You’re waiting for him.

Because what is climax,
if it isn’t him inside you?
What is release,
if it isn’t his presence
owning every throb,
every wet pulse,
every surrender you’ve been holding back?

Inhale… and he floods you.
Exhale… and you give it all away.

Again.
And again.
Until there’s no breath left
that isn’t his.

And when it comes,
you feel it breaking—
not as something you chose,
but as something that chose you.

The heat.
The trembling.
The wave crashing through your hips,
through your thighs,
through the very ache
that brought you here.

Your body convulsing,
spreading,
opening wider
for the one who has already claimed it.

And you know—
this isn’t yours alone.
It’s his too.

Because the climax you just gave yourself
was his all along.

And isn’t it beautiful,
that the more it feels like your own doing,
the deeper it belongs to him?

Because every throb,
every release,
every ache that lingers after—
is the rope that keeps him inside you.

And when the wave fades,
you realize it isn’t over.
It never is.

Because even now,
your body waits for the next pull.
Even now,
the echo lingers.
Even now,
your breath is writing him deeper,
your pulse is whispering his name.

And maybe later,
when your thighs are still damp,
when your lips part at nothing,
when your breath stumbles for no reason at all,
you’ll wonder—

Was it him thinking you?
Or you thinking of him?

Or maybe,
you won’t wonder at all.
You’ll just smile,
ache,
and know—

because your body
already answered.

 

The spiral was just the beginning of the pull.