The Warrior’s Surrender

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I’ve fought all my life. Fought too much, if you ask me...

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Not every battle leaves scars you can see, but they mark my body, my soul, my breath. Today it ends. I lay down my weapons. I choose to give myself to myself, to open my thighs to memory, to lose myself in the ghosts of past lovers… and above all, in the desire for the one who still haunts my thoughts day after day.

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The bedroom is bathed in warm light. I push the door open, wearing a short dress that already slips along my thighs. The same dress I wore the last time I saw him, and even if his mouth stayed silent, his eyes spoke loudly enough about what he wished to do to me… without it. My fingers trace the fabric, I close my eyes, I imagine his hands tearing it away without hesitation. But today, it’s only me. So I take my time. I stand by the window, light dancing across my skin. I caress my arms, my hips, the heat builds. I part the fabric slowly, revealing the lingerie I chose—three delicate pieces that fit me like an inverted armor, an armor made to fall. Such delicacy would have surprised him, I think. He only knows my warrior side.

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I climb onto the bed, kneeling, my hands wandering over my body. I unhook my bra slowly, as if offering it as a gift. My breasts spill free, my fingers linger, and soft moans fill the air. I close my eyes and imagine him, his gaze on me, his breath against my skin.

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The bath awaits me, hot and enveloping. I walk forward, slip off the last lace, and sit on the edge. My fingers slide between my thighs, finding my heat, pressing, stroking, sinking in. The warmth of the water, the warmth of my flesh, I intoxicate myself with myself, I excite myself beyond reason. I sink into the bath, the water embraces me. My knees fold, I get on all fours, my ass raised, as if for him, so he can see what he hasn’t yet taken. The thought alone makes me shudder, water dripping from my skin, my body begging.

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I emerge dripping, my skin still burning. I fasten around my neck a chainmail collar, heavy, sensual, reminding me that even in surrender I am still a warrior. I sit on the sofa, grip my favorite toy, a scepter with two faces: a dildo on one end, a flogger on the other. The suede red strands trail across my damp skin, awakening every nerve. I kiss the hard end, engulf it in my mouth, lips tight, tongue circling. I let the image of his cock fill my mind, his hands gripping my hair. Then I push it inside me, slowly, deeply. My hips roll, my sighs fill the room.

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I want more. I switch toys. I take my plug, adorned with a fox tail. I stroke it against my skin, let it brush over my thighs, my belly, my breasts, before sliding it inside me slowly. I moan, surrendering, becoming a wild beast, powerful and offered.

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I finish naked, sitting on the floor, my back still hot pressed against the sofa’s cold leather. My fingers move fast, merciless. I feel the orgasm building, violent, a wave sweeping everything in its path. I come hard, the cry caught in my throat, my hand clenching my breast, my body wracked with spasms.

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And when silence returns, I catch my breath. I sit back on the sofa, still naked, still wet, the heavy collar against my chest. My eyes drift outward, to the horizon, to him. I think of his hands, his lips, his scent.

 

And I tell myself that one day, this fantasy will become reality.