#dominancewriting

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Uneven tits? Good. One for comfort. One for chaos. I’ll alternate like a ritual.

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“She said ‘be gentle’ so I took her out for soup and made eye contact until she came.”

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“You can look me in the eyes or cum. Not both.” She lasted six seconds. And apologized.

I didn’t accept.

She will be punished until further notice.

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Platonic Pussies Don’t Gush Like That — And We Both Knew It

You can lie to yourself all you want. You can lie to your friends. Hell, you can lie to your mother if you're brave enough.

But you can't lie to biology.

You can't pretend a pussy that’s leaking onto the waxing towel like a sacrificial offering is just "friendly moisture."

And if you think you can?

Sweetheart, the only one you're fooling is the guy too scared to breathe it in.

I. The Setup: "Help Me Wax?"

It always starts soft.

"Can you help me wax?" "It’s just a favor." "We’re just friends."

Sure. Friends who apparently believe that spreading your legs wide open, stripping yourself bare, and trusting a man’s fingers to rip at the roots of your fertility won’t trigger a single biological alarm.

Cool.

Real platonic.

Totally normal.

Absolutely no chance the body will respond like it’s being prepped for sacrificial worship.

II. What Happens When You Wax a Woman (Real Version)

She can keep her face blank. She can pretend it’s casual. She can act like she’s scrolling Instagram while you press hot wax between her thighs.

Her mouth lies. Her body whispers prayers she doesn’t want you to hear.

Her pelvis tilts.

Her thighs breathe like lungs.

Her clit shifts — swelling invisibly.

Her scent darkens — blooms — into a syrup you can smell without inhaling.

And the leak?

It starts silent. It ends biblical.

Because here’s the thing:

The nerve endings you’re activating?

Same cluster that triggers arousal.

Same cluster that prepares her for penetration.

Same cluster that screams into the spinal column “he’s touching the door to your temple — open up.”

III. She Doesn't Say a Word

Of course she doesn’t.

Because admitting it would mean:

Admitting her body betrayed her “just friends” story.

Admitting she got wet from the most primal ritual available: man kneels, woman opens, blood heats.

Admitting the glaze was not an accident, but a biological surrender.

So she stares at the ceiling. She adjusts her shirt. She flexes her toes.

Anything to distract from the fact that her pussy is visibly, irrevocably, shamelessly rejoicing.

IV. No Perfume Can Cover What She's Screaming

You can smell it.

You don’t have to be an expert. You don’t need to be a gynecologist. You just need to have testosterone still circulating through your bloodstream.

Because her wetness?

It’s not just lubrication. It’s hormonal signature.

You’re not just smelling pussy. You’re smelling surrender.

The body makes no distinction:

Friend? No.

Fertility opportunity? Yes.

Penetration readiness? Confirmed.

Warning sent to pelvic floor: Prepare for contraction if stimulation continues.

And she knows. Oh, she knows.

She can feel the difference.

She can feel the pulse.

She can feel the slow, terrifying realization that if you touched her the right way right now, she would gush so hard she might cry about it later.

V. The Wax Strip Isn't the Only Thing Pulling

You think the wax is pulling hair?

The real pull is:

Her walls clenching.

Her clit twitching.

Her womb leaning toward the man who treated her like a temple without needing permission.

You didn’t ask. You didn’t flirt.

You served the body and let it answer.

And it answered in moisture and muscular betrayal.

VI. This Is Why Most Men Stay In the Friend Zone

They flinch.

They smell it — and pretend they don't. They see the glaze — and look away. They feel the electricity — and pretend it’s just “platonic tension.”

She leaked the truth into your hand, and you wiped it off like a coward.

The right man?

He notices the wetness.

He lets it sit in the room.

He smiles slow — not cruelly, not arrogantly — but knowingly.

And without saying a word?

He reminds her: "Your body is telling the truth, even if your mouth can't."

VII. What Happens When She Realizes You Know

She twitches.

She stammers.

She adjusts imaginary clothing even though you’ve seen every inch she could legally expose.

And when she looks up at you?

If you’re weak, she’ll close.

If you’re steady, she’ll open further.

Because now the question isn’t:

Does he know?

The question is:

Will he make me admit it? Or will he make me show it instead?

VIII. Why Female Bodies Betray "Friendship" Under Ritual Touch

When you:

Apply heat

Strip vulnerability

Stay silent

Hold space

Her ancient nervous system — the one older than cities, older than shame, older than monogamy — activates.

It says:

"He’s near."

"He’s competent."

"He’s handling my body without hesitation."

"Submit. Leak. Prepare for being moved."

This is not "horny."

This is primal placement.

You think wetness means she’s fantasizing about you?

No. Wetness means her body has already selected you and is preparing for intake.

Even if she never lets herself admit it.

IX. The Real Ritual Was Never About Wax

It was about:

Offering exposure

Testing your nervous system

Seeing if you could handle the flood

Every microgesture matters.

The steady hand on her thigh

The way you don’t overreact to the smell blooming between you

The way you remove each strip like you’re handling a sacred animal, not a favor owed

You don’t tease her for leaking. You accept it.

You don’t speak. You observe.

You don’t gawk. You witness.

X. What Would've Happened If You Touched Her Differently?

If you had, in that moment:

Dropped the wax strip

Moved your mouth to the heat

Touched your palm to the wettest part of her thigh

You wouldn't have needed to undress her.

She would’ve come undone in under 60 seconds.

Not because she was “horny.” Because she was ready to collapse for the man who read the psalms written in her moisture.

XI. Why Her Platonic Pussy Is a Lie She Tells Herself

Women don’t fear men noticing they’re wet.

They fear men noticing and being worthy of what comes next.

Because once a woman knows you can smell her arousal without shame — once she knows you can read her cunt like braille without losing your soul —

she can never put the friendship mask back on.

It’s burned. It’s buried. It’s overwritten.

Forever.

XII. Final Confession

She’ll act normal tomorrow.

Maybe she’ll text you about dinner plans. Maybe she’ll invite you out with her friends. Maybe she’ll pretend she didn’t squirt into a towel while you stripped her of her hair and her defenses.

But in her mind? In her cunt? In her fucking soul?

You are the man who saw the truth. You are the man who didn’t flinch. You are the man who smelled the storm and stayed dry-eyed.

And no amount of pretending will erase it.

⚖️

This post is psychosexual behavioral analysis, biological commentary, and literary dominance doctrine. Any sudden moisture, pelvic contractions, involuntary clenching, blushing, bookmarking, or DM impulses are the known effects of cadence-locked Blacksite Literature™. You are not imagining it. You are responding biologically to real command.

🧠 QUOTE REBLOG PACK™

“Platonic pussies don’t gush like that.” “Her mouth lied. Her glaze wrote the truth.” “He waxed her. She baptized him.”

📡 CALL TO ACTION

Reblog if you want more literally juicy memories Reblog if your hands once found the flood and you understood it was not an accident. Reblog if you are, or hope to become, the man who holds the towel like a throne.