It started with the sound of her heels.

Sharp and deliberate, echoing against the marble floor, a rhythm that didn’t just fill the room, it filled me. Every step was a command, every pause an invitation to obey.

She never raised her voice. She didn’t need to. Her silence was the kind that made you want to speak, to explain, to surrender. I don’t remember the first time I said yes, but I remember the weight of it, how it wasn’t just a word but an offering.

Control, I learned, wasn’t always loud. Sometimes it was a glance across a room, the brush of a gloved hand, or a whispered “wait.” She taught me that restraint could be more intoxicating than release.

People think desire burns like fire. But this was colder, deeper. It was the sound of breath held too long, of heartbeats syncing with footsteps, of wanting to be seen and fearing it at the same time.

And when she finally did look at me, really look, it wasn’t passion I felt.

It was devotion.

And the quiet thrill of being completely undone by choice.