Gentle. Loving whispers that strip you soft, not harsh.
Gentle. Hands that fix surrender easier than flesh does.
Gentle. Gentle hands know exactly where to grow
Gentle. Soft-spoken drill sergeant who never marks your progress.
Gentle. Rubs basil leaves before every nervous confession
Gentle. My yoga is slow enough no one hears you gasp; my waiting does triple-time.
Gentle. Hands that heal, softly take what's theirs
Gentle. Before the candle guttering, before my courage thins
Gentle. She detaches slowly, then hungers all at once.
Gentle. Pours stew and obedience from the same pot.
Gentle. She holds his surrender only the locked door sees.
Gentle. Keeps his iron collar under the knitting basket.
Gentle. Slow-hands spy whose want refuses to wait
Gentle. Your kneeling devotee, obedient and starving quietly.
Gentle. Her kneading technique turns into control games.
Gentle. Quiet voice calibrating your every surrender mid-page.
Gentle. Precision reader of bodies, tender menace, calibrated vulnerability.
Gentle. Precision calibrated to make you lose composure.
Gentle. Her hands seal vintages and buckle leather with the same reverent care.
Gentle. Service is the foreplay she dresses for daily.