When Time Stands Stills...
He had known from
the first glance,
The first locked eyes.
Not from the way she looked—
though yes,
she was graceful and beautiful
in that effortless, unaware way—
but from how she held herself.
Tight at the shoulders.
Guarded at the edges.
The way her gaze flicked
downward when she laughed—
And when she blushed at the
subtle signs and coded words—
as if they should only be uttered in secret.
He was attracted
to her poise,
to her posture,
to her strength—
and vulnerability—
he saw what she hadn’t
intended to reveal
for fear of being judged.
She wanted to feel
the edge of her life.
She wanted to know
what it feels
to be broken.
He didn’t want to break her.
He wanted to release her.
So he planned it carefully.
No chaos.
No improvisation.
This wasn’t seduction.
This was design—
a different branch of architecture
where she was the structure
aching to be redesigned
reimagined in a different light
illuminated by
shades of shadows
In darkness
He studied her silences,
her hesitation when she said
“I don’t know what I want,”
and heard what she couldn’t
articulate:
I want to be undone...
by someone who knows how.
So he imagined the scene
down to the finest element.
He wanted to create his
masterpiece—
of design and elegance,
erotic elegance.
The lighting: dim, but not dark.
The music: sensual and soft.
Shadows stretching
across the walls
like silent witnesses.
The tone of his voice:
low, unwavering.
Stern, disciplined.
Not cruel. Not soft.
Just strong.
It had to be strong.
He wouldn’t touch her at first.
He wanted her to feel
the space between them—
as heavy as hands.
He knew exactly when he’d speak.
How he'd let silence build pressure
until her own heartbeat grew too loud to bear.
And when he said “Strip,”
he meant more than clothes.
He commanded her to feel that word.
He meant: let go.
He meant: reveal.
He meant: trust me with your truth.
He expected hesitation.
He counted on it.
It made what followed
all the more sacred.
He’d prepared the blindfold in advance—
not just as a prop,
but as a promise.
The surrender of sight
was the first real yes.
He placed it on her
with the tenderness of a man
holding something breakable
he did not intend to break.
He has patience.
He has experience to back
his mastery.
Only then would the belt whisper from its loops.
Not snapped, not cracked—
just released.
The sound was its own kind of touch.
He watched the way her breath stalled,
her chest rising—
the beginning of surrender written
across her skin.
He wouldn’t give her pain
without precision.
Every stroke, placed.
Every moan, earned.
This wasn’t punishment.
It was poetry in flesh.
And when he finally touched her—
low, slow, between trembling thighs—
he did so not to claim a prize,
but to answer a question
she hadn’t dared to ask.
To feel the answer in his fingers
as he explored her petals.
He didn’t speak.
His fingers did.
Yes, this is who you are.
Yes, I see you.
Yes, you are safe.
Even here. Especially here.
He whispered, “You’re elegant when you arch.”
“You are erotic when you open yourself.”
And felt her melt under the words
like wax meeting flame.
He hadn’t planned that part.
Some truths don’t need rehearsal.
What he had planned—
was the stillness.
The moment where time would stretch,
then freeze.
When she would stop bracing,
stop doubting,
stop pretending
she didn’t want to be led.
And he saw it in her then—
not fear, not resistance—
but a kind of peace
so raw, it was holy.
She knelt,
and his world—
Yes, His World
for one breathless instant,
knelt with her.
That’s when he knew:
he hadn’t just unlocked her submission.
He had been entrusted with it.
And that responsibility—
the honour of it—
lit something sacred in him.
It was about presence.
Precision.
And the exquisite truth
that when two people finally meet
in the stillness between
dominance and surrender—
in the space between
dominance and submission—
the rest of the world disappears
their lives emerge.
And time
still
stands still.
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