Blake — Worship What I Am
I don’t apologize for taking up space. I choose the table, the tempo, and the view; I lean back and watch him realize he came here to be brave. He ordered his drink with steady hands, but the second I smile, they tremble. It’s adorable.
He tells me I’m stunning like he’s been rehearsing it. I let the compliment hang between us until it turns electric. “Try again,” I say, and he does—slower this time, clearer. Beautiful. Powerful. Wanted. The words land where I like them: under my skin, not instead of it.
Out on the sidewalk, the city breathes in neon and rain. I set the pace. He matches it. I like a man who can follow without losing himself. In the elevator he reaches for my hand; I let him, then turn his palm and place it flat against my heartbeat. “Feel that?” I ask. “That’s what you’re here to serve.”
In the soft light of my room, the world narrows to voice and breath. I stand close enough that he forgets the distance he used to keep around women like me. “Say it,” I whisper, and he does—how he wants all of me, how he loves my body exactly as it is, how the word woman means me. I hold his chin and watch the honesty bloom across his face. That’s the part that gets me every time: truth, spoken without flinching.
I lead. He relaxes. It’s not a negotiation; it’s recognition. He admires the lines I draw and the ones I break on purpose. When he tells me he loves that I have a cock, it’s not a secret or a confession—just reverence. I feel the heat of it in the simplest gestures: how he looks at me, how he waits for my nod, how he smiles when I take control. Desire turns quiet and focused, like a room after the music fades.
Later, we’re a silhouette against the window—city lights, slow breathing, the easy gravity of two people who chose the same truth. He thanks me for the night. I kiss the corner of his mouth and smile against his skin. “Good answer,” I say. “Now do it again.”