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.