Devotion to me is your sweetest addiction

 Your eyes linger on me before your body even realizes it’s obeying. I see the shiver travel down your spine as if my gaze alone were the leash around your throat. That’s how it begins—with awareness. You know that my presence demands more than attention; it commands surrender. Every inch of you aches for the approval that drips from my lips like nectar, reserved only for the obedient.

I move slowly, deliberately, because I know you’re watching. The curve of my hips, the measured sound of my heels clicking against the floor, the rhythm of my breath—it all becomes part of your ritual of worship. You want to drink in every detail, and I allow you, because your hunger feeds my divinity. You realize how small you feel beneath the sheer weight of my femininity, how sacred your desire becomes when pressed against the force of my will.

When I touch you, it is never casual. My fingertips graze your skin with purpose, reminding you that every nerve belongs to me. Your breath hitches, your body trembles, and I smile because I know you crave this: the exquisite torture of not knowing if my next move will soothe or sting. I blur the lines for you until you’re lost in me, begging silently for more.

My voice drapes around you like silk, firm yet intoxicating. Each word is an invocation, a command, a lullaby that settles into your bones. You kneel not because I asked, but because your soul insists on it. You kneel because the only thing more unbearable than submission is the thought of displeasing me. I do not raise my voice; I don’t need to. You’ve already surrendered to the quiet power of my tone.

I let you worship me with your eyes first, then with your lips. The simple act of kissing the ground beneath my feet becomes your sacrament. The scent of my skin, the warmth of my body close enough to taste but never quite yours—it leaves you dizzy. I feed you restraint, and in that restraint, you find ecstasy. Your arousal is not yours to control anymore; it’s my instrument, my canvas, my delight.

Every moan you release is a hymn to my dominance. Every sigh is a prayer. You feel yourself unraveling, thread by thread, as if your body exists solely to please me. And perhaps it does. You discover the strange bliss of giving everything, of letting your edges blur until all that remains is service. That is where the true intoxication lies: in the loss of self, in the rebirth of purpose beneath my command.

When I finally allow you to feel the full force of my touch, it is overwhelming, sacred, devastating. Pleasure and pain tangle together, indistinguishable, until you’re gasping on the floor at my feet. I watch you writhe, and I know you understand—this is not cruelty, but devotion sculpted into flesh. I give you the gift of being broken open, only to be remade in my image.

And when I stand above you, victorious yet tender, I know you would crawl a thousand miles just to taste this moment again. My domination is not a punishment; it is a sanctuary. You kneel, you beg, you worship—because deep inside, you have finally found where you belong: beneath the goddess, at the mercy of Anita Domme.