Divine Surrender: From Touch to Worship

You wake choking on your own breath.

The room is black except for the thin silver blade of streetlight

slicing through the blinds, cutting across your naked body like

a promise of violence. Your thighs are sticky still slick from last

night, from the way I fucked you raw against that hotel

window while the city glittered below, indifferent. My cum is

dried in flaky patterns down the inside of your legs, mixed

with your own release, the kind that left you sobbing and

begging for mercy you did not want.

You reach between your legs instinctively. Not gentle. Not

curious. You shove two fingers inside yourself, hard, chasing

the ghost of my cock. You are swollen, bruised, tender in the

best and worst way. The stretch burns. You hiss through your

teeth and push deeper anyway.

Because even now hours after I left you wrecked and leaking

on silk sheets you are still starving.

You roll onto your stomach, face pressed into the pillow that

still smells like my throat, like sweat and dominance and the

faint metallic tang of blood from where I bit your shoulder

until you bled. You grind against your own hand, hips rolling in

slow, filthy circles, imagining my weight pinning you down, my

voice in your ear growling, “You’re not allowed to come without

permission, slut.”

But I am not here to give permission.So, you stop. Panting. Shaking. You pull your fingers out and

suck them clean tasting us both, tasting how completely I have

ruined you for anyone else.

The black dress from yesterday lies crumpled on the floor like

evidence. You pick it up, press it to your face, inhale. My scent

is embedded in the fabric. You slip it on without showering. No

panties. No bra. Just the dress clinging to your damp skin,

nipples hard against silk, the hem barely covering the marks I

left on your thighs.

Your phone lights up on the nightstand. My message, sent at

3:47 a.m.:

No shower. Wear what I left on the dresser. Meet me at the

studio at 10. Do not be late. Don’t touch yourself again. If I find

even one drop of your cum on your fingers when I check, I will

make you regret it for days. You open the dresser drawer.

Inside: a thin black leather collar with a small silver ring. No

lock just a buckle. Simple. Permanent feeling.

You fasten it around your throat. The leather is cool, then

warms quickly to your skin. You look in the mirror.

The woman staring back has dark circles under her eyes, lips

swollen and bitten raw, hair tangled from being pulled. The

collar sits low, possessive, like a brand.

You smile.

Because you look fucking dangerous.

You arrive at the studio ten minutes early.

The door is unlocked. Incense is already burning thicker this

time, heavier, something primal mixed with the familiar

jasmine and sandalwood. The amber lights are dimmed to

nothing. Shadows pool in every corner like waiting predators.I am there, shirtless, sleeves of black ink crawling up my arms

and across my chest. I don’t smile when you enter. I just look.

You close the door behind you. The click sounds final.

“Knees,” I say. One word. Low. Lethal.

You drop without hesitation. The hardwood bites into your

kneecaps. You do not care.

I step closer. Slow. Deliberate. My bare feet silent. When I am

close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off my body, I

reach down, hook a finger through the ring on your collar, and

tug your head back until your throat is exposed.

“You obeyed,” I murmur. “Good girl.”

My other hand slides between your legs without preamble.

Two fingers plunge inside you rough, testing. You are soaked.

Dripping down my wrist already.

“Filthy,” I growl. “You did not come, but you wanted to. Badly.”

“Yes,” you breathe.

I curl my fingers hard against your G-spot. Your hips jerk. “Did

you think about her?” I ask. Voice dangerously soft. “The

shadow. The one who watched me fuck you like a whore in

front of half the city.” Your breath hitches.

“Answer.”

“Yes,” you whisper. “I thought about her watching. About her

knowing she could never take what I give you.” I

twist my fingers. You moan loud, broken.

“She wants back in,” I say. “She thinks she can still crawl under

my skin. Thinks she can make you run.”

I pull my fingers free. Smear your wetness across your lips.

You lick without being told.

“She won’t,” you rasp. “I’ll burn before I let her near us.”I crouch in front of you. Eyes locked on yours. Dark. Endless.

“Then prove it.”

I stand. Unbuckle my belt. The sound of leather sliding

through loops is obscene in the quiet room. “Hands

behind your back.” You obey.

I wrap the belt around your wrists tight enough to bruise,

loose enough you could fight if you wanted to.

You do not want to.

I drag you to your feet by the collar. Push you toward the

massage table the same one where it all began. But this time

there is no towel. No pretense of professionalism.

I bend you over it. Face down. Ass up. Dress shoved to your

waist.

You hear me behind your zipper. Fabric hitting the floor.

No warning.

I slam into you in one brutal thrust. No lube needed. You are

drenched. You scream anyway sharp, animal. The stretch is

punishing. Perfect.

I do not give you time to adjust.

I fuck you like I hate you.

Hard. Deep. Merciless.

One hand fists your hair, yanking your head back so your spine

arches. The other wraps around your throat from behind

squeezing just enough that your vision sparks black at the

edges.

“Say it,” I snarl against your ear. “Say who owns this cunt.”

“You,” you choke out. “Only you.”I spank you hard, open palm, repeatedly until your ass is

blazing red, until tears stream down your face, until you are

sobbing and grinding back against me like you’ll die if I stop.

I do not stop.

I reach around, fingers finding your clit, pinching hard.

“Come,” I command. “Come screaming my name so loud she

hears it wherever the fuck she’s hiding.”

Your orgasm rips through you violent, shattering. You scream.

You squirt. You soak my thighs, the table, the floor.

I do not stop.

I fuck you through it. Past it. Into another one. Then another.

Until you are limp. Wrecked. Babbling nonsense.

Only then do I pull out. Flip you onto your back. Straddle your

chest.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes are glassy, pupils blown.

I stroke myself once. Twice.

Then I come across your face thick ropes painting your cheeks,

your lips, your collar. Marking territory.

You open your mouth. Catch what you can. Swallow. I lean

down. Kiss you through the mess. Taste myself on your

tongue.

“You’re mine,” I whisper. “And I’m going to ruin you so

thoroughly no one else will ever satisfy the wreckage.” You

smile through tears and cum.

“Promise?”

I bite your lower lip until it bleeds. “Every

fucking day.”

The door is still closed.But the shadow outside is listening.

And she knows.

This is not worship anymore.

This is war.

And you are the weapon