Worship in the Dark
The door shuts.
It’s not fear.
It’s the thrill of being preyed upon
blindfolded so mind stops lying.
He don’t ask if you’re ready.
He make me ready.
The tie around wrists is slow—deliberate.
A promise, not a threat.
My body arches at the edge of pain.
But i don't beg to stop.
I beg him to never leave me in the light again.
The dark is where we belong.
not made for soft hands and praise... built to be broken open,beautifully,in silence.
He want tears—not from sorrow,
but from the raw truth of finally being seen.
This isn’t play.This is worship in its most violent, honest form.
leave marked. leave ruined.
And thank with trembling legs,
bitten lips, and eyes that scream for more.

The door shuts.
It’s not fear.
It’s the thrill of being preyed upon
blindfolded so mind stops lying.
He don’t ask if you’re ready.
He make me ready.
The tie around wrists is slow—deliberate.
A promise, not a threat.
My body arches at the edge of pain.
But i don't beg to stop.
I beg him to never leave me in the light again.
The dark is where we belong.
not made for soft hands and praise... built to be broken open,beautifully,in silence.
He want tears—not from sorrow,
but from the raw truth of finally being seen.
This isn’t play.This is worship in its most violent, honest form.
leave marked. leave ruined.
And thank with trembling legs,
bitten lips, and eyes that scream for more.