She doesn’t live in midtown gloss,
Not a penthouse, but not her loss.
In Flushing flats and Astoria light,
She claims her throne most every night.
They think queens only rule in chains—
But this one built hers in corner stores and rain.
Latex hung on rusted racks,
Still makes him arch, still makes Read more…him crack.
She lights a flame on Roosevelt,
Her tread reminds him how he knelt.
He follows with his eyes cast low,
A suit by day, at night her show.
No stilettos in this tale,
Just Nike Dunks and fingernails.
Her kingdom’s laced with ramen steam—
A domme, a myth, a Flushing dream.
Forget the dungeon chandelier—
Her gaze alone commands your ***.
He waits beside a takeout spread,
Hands bound tight in twisted thread.
She straddles him on a mattress thin,
And slaps the guilt right off his skin.
Each “yes, Mistress” fills the room
Like jasmine, heat, and corner bloom.
Her spit a mark, her grip a rite—
He begs and moans through Queens-bound night.
And when she hums, “You’re mine, you know,”
He shudders deep, then lets it show.
No velvet stage, no silk routines—
Just cracked tile floors and local queens.

The sun blazed above, casting golden light across the villa’s tiled terrace. Dana stood barefoot, wrapped in nothing but an oversized white shirt, the hem brushing her thighs. She breathed in slowly, deeply—citrus trees and heat swirling in the air.
Mike knelt before her on a silk cushion. His back Read more…was straight. His gaze was lowered. He had asked for this—craved it. The structure. The surrender. The worship.
And Dana, calm and confident in the late-afternoon sun, was ready to give him exactly what he needed.
She lifted her shirt slowly, revealing a pair of soft pink panties—high-waisted cotton, embroidered with tiny flowers. They were hers. Comfortable. Strong. Unbothered.
She looked down at him. “Do you like them?”
“Yes, Mistress,” he said softly.
“Good,” she said. “Then show me how much.”
She sat with grace, parting her legs just enough. “Crawl to me.”
Mike obeyed. His movements were slow, deliberate—offering himself, not rushing.
When he reached her, he looked up for permission.
“You may begin,” she said.
He kissed her thigh—gentle and reverent. She smiled and rested a hand in his hair, a silent sign of approval. When he hesitated, she whispered:
“Not timid. Not tentative. You’re here to serve.”
He adjusted, bolder now. His mouth moved to the heat of her. His tongue explored her slowly, learning the rhythm of her breath.
Dana exhaled, eyes half-closed. “That’s better.”
She guided him with gentle pressure, shifting her hips forward. He responded eagerly—each movement of his mouth intentional, every moan low and muffled in her skin.
Her thighs tightened. Her hands steadied in his hair. Her orgasm came like light through glass—clean, bright, overwhelming.
But she wasn’t done.
“Again,” she said. Her voice soft, but final.
He obeyed with no hesitation now—only purpose. His tongue worked faster, more precise, circling her clit until her hips trembled again and her voice broke into a soft gasp.
Dana let the second orgasm roll through her like a wave. When it faded, she tugged lightly on his hair to bring him back.
“Good,” she said. Her voice was warm with satisfaction. “You did well.”
She stood and looked down at him—his face flushed, lips slick, expression blissful.
“Clean me,” she said. “Slowly.”
He leaned in again—tender, unhurried—and she let him finish the ritual as sunlight spilled over their skin.
This was service.
This was trust.
This was how she wanted to be adored:
Not in darkness.
But in full, blazing daylight.

The fire is crackling, the blankets are thick,
Outside, the snow falls gentle and quick.
Inside, she hums with a glint in her eye,
And I, her boy, know the reason why.
She stretches slow in her ***re and lace,
Then straddles the bed with elegant grace.
“Come here,” she purrs, with a playful Read more…smirk,
I drop to my knees—this is sacred work.
Her thighs are warm, her scent is sweet,
The kind of perfume that melts at heat.
She grips my curls, tips up my chin,
“Let’s see how deep your love runs in.”
My tongue parts her slowly, soft and wide,
Her taste is the wild, the woods, the tide.
She giggles above me, teasing the pace,
But her hips soon roll with breathless grace.
“Good boy,” she sighs, “don’t stop, not yet,”
As my face grows slick, my jaw gets wet.
She rides me gently, fingers in hair,
Rocking her pleasure like morning prayer.
The first wave hits—she arches, cries,
Snowlight gleams in her half-lidded eyes.
But she doesn’t stop—she grinds again,
Whispering spells in her breathless Zen.
I hum against her, drunk on bliss,
Each moan she makes, a holy kiss.
She cums again, her voice a song,
Tugging my hair, moaning, “all night long.”
The cabin glows with a golden haze,
We’re lost in love, in heat, in praise.
Her thighs around me, wet and wide,
She rides my mouth like a winter tide.
Later she tucks me beneath her chest,
Her fingers tracing, my head at rest.
“You’re mine,” she says, “like stars to sky,”
And I nod against her, warm and high.
So let the snow fall thick and deep—
My place is here, beneath her, steeped.
In love, in lust, in every decree,
Melting for her, eternally.

I Worship Where She Blooms
The moonlight spills on satin sheets,
She lounges there—divine, complete.
Her thighs are parted, robe untied,
And I, her boy, kneel glorified.
She tilts her chin, commands, “Begin,”
I crawl between and breathe her in.
Salt from the sea clings to her skin,
But nothing’s Read more…sweeter than what’s within.
My mouth obeys what words won’t say,
I taste her like the break of day.
Each stroke, each flick, her hips reply,
She moans, and I forget the sky.
I suck her clit until she cries,
One hand in my hair, the other guides.
She grinds her cunt across my face,
I drink her like it’s holy grace.
She cums, she shudders, thighs squeeze tight,
But I don’t pause—I serve through the night.
Again, she climbs, a tidal scream,
Her pleasure splits the world in steam.
The villa hums with the ocean breeze,
But I’m beneath her, lost in need.
My mouth is her throne and is the key
This is the life she gifts to me.
She rides my lips in rhythm wild,
A goddess fed, a woman riled.
She soaks my tongue, she marks my soul,
And still I serve, still lose control.
The third one hits—she writhes, she swears,
My face is slick with all she bears.
She leans back, gasping, eyes aglow,
Her thighs still trembling, flushed and slow.
She pulls me up and strokes my cheek,
Her voice is velvet when she speaks:
“You’re mine, my love, my loyal flame—
You wear your purpose in my name.”
And in her kiss, I feel it bloom—
The peace of service, soft as a tune.
What others chase, we’ve made and grown
A throne of love, where I kneel alone.