The Invitation

The room is quiet…
except for the low hum of music
and the slow rhythm of her breath—
measured, deliberate, new.

She didn’t always feel like this.
There was a time she dressed in the dark,
touched herself like a secret,
hid her curves beneath soft cotton and silence.

But tonight?

Tonight, the robe slips like an offering—
slow, silky, intentional.
It lands on the floor with a hush,
as if even the fabric knows
she’s done hiding.

She moves with a softness that isn’t shy—
it’s sovereign.
Her fingertips graze her collarbone,
then dip lower…
not for anyone else—
for her.

In the mirror, she meets her reflection.
A flush on her cheeks.
A glint in her eye.
A smile that says: I know exactly what I’m doing.
And I’m doing it for me.

She’s not waiting to be chosen.
She is choosing.

And then—
as if summoned by the spell she’s casting—
he appears.
Silent at first. Watching.
Wanting.

But she doesn’t turn to him.
Not yet.

She stretches—slow, feline—
bare skin against velvet,
eyes fixed only on her own.

“I’m not the girl who needs permission anymore,” she says,
lips curled like a dare.
“I’m the one who gives it.”

A pause.
A breath.
A pulse of heat between them.

And then—finally—
she turns.
Just a little.
Enough to let him see.

Not everything.
Just enough.

“If you want me…” she whispers,
“you’ll have to come closer.”