Nirvana

After a long, punishing day, she finally stepped through the door, body heavy with exhaustion and mind frayed at the edges. All she wanted was to collapse into his arms … to melt into his warmth, bury her face in his chest, and forget the world existed. But that would have to wait. Daddy had messaged earlier … running late tonight, princess. Be home soon. No time to talk today. Just that message. And now the silence in the house felt even louder.

She sighed, dragging herself through the living room, dropping her bag onto the couch with a dull thud. The day clung to her skin like dust, and her feet carried her toward the bathroom on autopilot. Clothes peeled off one by one, falling to the floor like shed armour. She needed the water. Needed to wash off the weight. The moment the hot stream hit her skin, her body sagged. The shower filled with steam and the sound of her soft sighs. She stood there for what felt like forever, letting the heat undo her tension, soften her edges, and coax her back to herself.

Eventually, she stepped out…skin flushed, heart quieter. She slipped into his shirt without thinking. Creamy white. Oversized. It hung mid-thigh and draped off one shoulder, still faintly holding his scent. She ran her fingers across the hem, comforted by the way it swallowed her body.

But when she opened the bathroom door…She froze.

The curtains … once open … were now drawn. Candles glowed warm in every corner, flickering softly against the walls. And the smell...chamomile and lavender. Her favourite. Familiar. Calming.

And there he was. Sitting on the couch. Waiting for her.

He looked up the moment she stepped into the room, and something in his expression changed. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, forearms flexing slightly as he leaned forward. His tie loosened. Hair a bit mussed from the day. But his eyes … God, his eyes … softened like he’d just come home.

He drank her in, gaze crawling over her bare thighs, the way his shirt clung to her still-damp skin, the way her breath caught in her throat when their eyes met.

“You look...” he started, voice low, eyes tracing the edge of her shoulder where the shirt had slipped, “...like you need me.”

She didn’t answer…She ran…Straight to him. Her knees hit the couch before her body hit his… arms wrapping around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder like she could disappear into him. He caught her instantly, one arm around her waist, the other hand cupping the back of her head like he’d been waiting for this exact moment all damn day.

“You set this all up?” she murmured, voice muffled against his skin.

He kissed her temple. “I came home and heard the shower running. Thought about joining you,” he chuckled, “but you looked so peaceful in there, baby… I figured I’d make you feel even more loved when you stepped out.”…Her heart flipped. “Also…” he added with a grin against her ear, “I may or may not have made a quick run to grab your favourite snacks.” She pulled back just enough to look at him … cheeks warm, eyes glassy. “You spoil me.”…“You let me,” he said simply.

She straddled him without thinking, thighs settling on either side of his lap as her arms stayed looped around his neck. The t-shirt hitched up high on her thighs, the hem barely covering anything now that she was perched on top of him. He noticed. Oh, he noticed.

His hands slid down to her hips, fingers splaying wide, thumbs grazing the soft skin just under the hem of her shirt. “You wore this just for me, didn’t you?” he murmured, eyes darkening as he looked down, then slowly back up at her. “My good girl… walking out here looking like that, expecting me to behave.”

She bit her lip, hips instinctively rocking forward just a little … teasing, testing…“Maybe I wasn’t expecting you to behave,” she whispered, mouth barely an inch from his. His grip on her hips tightened. And just like that, the air between them shifted … the room pulsed with unspoken promises. She felt it. The hunger beneath his calm. The way his eyes locked on her like she was both a gift and a storm.

His finger barely moved between her thighs. Just enough to tease. To taunt. He traced the slickness there like he had all the time in the world, like the ache between her legs wasn’t begging to be undone. “You're so wet already,” he whispered, lips brushing her cheek as he watched the way her breath hitched, her thighs twitched, her eyes fluttered. “And I haven’t even touched you properly yet.” Her hips rolled instinctively, trying to grind down onto his hand…but he pulled back with a warning grip at her waist.

“No, no…” he said, voice low, firm, laced with that commanding warmth that made her body obey without thought. “You don’t get to chase it, baby. You’re gonna sit right there and let me take everything at my pace.” Her whimper was soft. Needy…She felt completely undone already…straddling him in his shirt, skin warm from the shower and flushed from the need that had only been growing since she stepped out and saw him waiting there.

He leaned in close again, kissing her slowly, deeply. His tongue slid into her mouth with the kind of control that made her toes curl…not fast or rough, but deliberate. Like he was tasting her. Memorizing her. Claiming her. As they kissed, his hand slid up her back, fingertips trailing under the fabric of the shirt. He lifted it slowly…exposing her inch by inch. He didn’t pull it off. No. He wanted it on her. His shirt. His girl. On his lap.

“You have no idea how fucking pretty you look in this,” he murmured, mouth brushing her ear. “Thick  thighs out, tits brushing against my chest, your cunt dripping for me while you pretend to sit still.” She moaned into his neck, her body trembling against his. Her core ached…empty, throbbing, desperate. But he wasn’t giving her anything yet. Just fingertips. Just words. Just heat.

And it was driving her insane…“I want you so bad,” she breathed, eyes pleading now. “I know you do,” he said, cupping her cheek again. “And I want you too, princess. But I’m not gonna rush it. You don’t need fast.” He kissed her again. Softer now. His hand moved between her thighs again, fingers slipping over her folds, slick and warm. Still teasing. Still light. But this time… he didn’t pull away.

His fingers circled again, slower this time. More deliberate. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, the tip of her nose. “You’ve had a long day,” he whispered. “So tonight… I’m gonna take my time. I’m gonna kiss every part of you. I’m gonna feel every twitch, every moan, every fucking breath you give me. And you’re not gonna lift a finger unless I tell you to.” She could barely nod. Her eyes were glassy. Her body soft and open in his hands. “That’s it,” he whispered, voice barely audible now as he pressed his forehead to hers. “Let me love you slow tonight.”

And so she let go.

She was already trembling by the time his fingers slid away…soaked, flushed, panting into the curve of his neck like she’d forgotten how to speak. Her thighs ached from straddling him, but she didn’t dare move. Not until he told her to. “Look at you,” he murmured, fingers still slick from her arousal as he cupped her face again. “All messy and needy in my lap. You’d let me ruin you right here, wouldn’t you?”

She nodded, dazed. Barely holding it together. “Mmm. I know you would,” he smirked, planting one final kiss on her lips. “But not here. I want you on the bed. Spread out. Quiet. Sweet. Just how I like you.” And with that, he shifted. In one smooth motion, he stood…carrying her with him…strong arms under her thighs, her body instinctively clinging to him, legs locked around his waist. His shirt rode high on her hips now, her slick centre pressed hot against the front of his trousers. She gasped at the friction, at how effortlessly he held her, how safe she felt in those arms.

“You feel that?” he whispered as he walked slowly toward the bedroom. “That’s how hard you’ve got me, baby. And I haven’t even been inside you yet.” Her breath hitched. The door opened with a soft push of his foot, and the bedroom greeted them like a dream…dimly lit with the same warm candlelight, the sheets turned down, the air thick with heat and anticipation. He set her down on the bed like she was fragile…precious. Like if he handled her too roughly, she might fall apart too soon.

“Lie back,” he ordered, voice low and heavy. She obeyed without hesitation, legs still slightly open, the shirt now completely bunched up around her hips. Her chest rose and fell fast, nipples hard under the thin cotton, her eyes never leaving his. He stood at the edge of the bed, eyes roaming her like she was art. Hands slowly undoing the buttons on his shirt, revealing tan skin, broad chest, veins along his forearms…everything she ached for.

But he didn’t rush.

Not with her.

He stripped for her like he wanted her to watch. Like every inch he exposed was a promise. A warning. A gift. And when he finally crawled over her…strong arms caging her in, lips ghosting over hers…she arched into him like her body couldn’t stand the distance anymore.

“First…” He lowered himself between her thighs, eyes locking on hers as he said the words that made her heart stop:

“Let Daddy taste what’s his.”

His breath hovered just above her core…warm, teasing, deliberate. One hand hooked beneath her thigh, spreading her open wider, the other trailing slowly over her stomach, reminding her he was still in control of every inch. She whimpered when she felt the first brush of his breath against her slick folds. He hadn’t even touched her yet.

“Look at you…” he murmured, voice husky and low. “All this for me. So wet. So ready. You’d let me taste you all night if I wanted to, wouldn’t you?” She nodded, eyes wide and pleading, her fingers gripping the sheets like she could hold herself together. He didn’t wait for another answer.

His mouth finally met her…hot, slow, devastating.

She gasped…back arching, thighs twitching…But he held her still…That same steady grip on her thigh tightened as he sucked her clit into his mouth, slow and rhythmic, the soft slurp of his tongue the only sound between her shaky moans and the faint crackle of candlelight nearby.

“Daddy…” she breathed, voice cracking on the edge of ruin. He growled low…the sound vibrating against her, making her whole body tremble. “Mm-mm. Use your words, baby. Tell me what you need.” Her voice barely worked. Her mind barely functioned. But she choked it out between gasps. “Please... don’t stop. Please... I need you... I-I’m so close…”His smile was wicked against her heat.

“Good,” he said, voice rough now. “You’re not cumming until I say so.” And then he buried his tongue inside her. He groaned like she was the best thing he’d ever tasted…Like he’d been dying to be between her thighs again.

She was shaking. Legs trembling. Voice caught in her chest as her orgasm built…high, hot, urgent. She tried to warn him. Tried to breathe. But all she could do was feel. “Daddy I—please—I can’t—” He pulled back, face slick, mouth swollen, eyes dark and wild. “Yes. You can.” And just like that, he sucked her clit between his lips again, slow and rhythmic, his fingers slipping inside her now…two thick, strong fingers pressing deep while his tongue circled and teased.

That was it. That broke her.

Her orgasm hit like a wave crashing too hard into the shore…sudden, loud, violent in its intensity. He didn’t let go until she was whining from overstimulation, body twitching, fingers still fisted in his hair while he kissed her softly…little licks and nuzzles like he couldn’t bear to stop. When he finally pulled back, his lips were shiny. His beard soaked. His expression smug and feral.

“God damn,” he whispered, crawling back up her body, pressing a line of slow kisses from her belly to her chest, up her throat, until he hovered over her mouth again. “You taste even sweeter when you cum for me.” She blinked up at him, dazed. Ruined. Glowing. And then he kissed her…deep, filthy, full of her own taste. “Now,” he murmured against her lips, grinding his cock against her soaked entrance, “you’re gonna let Daddy inside this pussy.”

“Slow…” she whispered.

He smiled.

“Oh, baby…
I’m gonna take my time."

His lips hovered over hers, both of them still breathless, bodies pulsing in sync. Her thighs lay open beneath him, glistening from the orgasm he dragged out of her with his mouth. His shirt was bunched around her waist, clinging to her skin in the candlelit warmth of the room. And his cock was hard, heavy, pressed against her soaked entrance…aching for her. She could feel him there, just teasing her folds, not yet inside, not yet giving her what she needed, what she begged for.

Her eyes met his…glassy, dazed, desperate.

“Daddy…” she whispered, voice barely working, “please…”

His hand cradled her face, thumb stroking her cheek with the softest reverence. “You sure you’re ready?” he asked, and God, even his voice made her melt…deep and low, rough with restraint. She nodded, hips tilting up toward him.

“I need you. Inside. Now.”

His lips curled in a slow smile. “Good girl.”

He guided himself to her entrance, dragging the head of his cock slowly through her slick folds, just barely nudging her opening…teasing, taunting. She gasped, her fingers curling into the sheets as her body strained to pull him in.

But he didn’t thrust. Not yet.

He pushed inch by inch, letting her feel the stretch…the slow, perfect invasion of his thick length pressing into her soaked heat. Her mouth dropped open in a silent moan, her back arching off the mattress as he filled her with a deliberate slowness that made every nerve light up like fire.

“Oh my God…” she breathed, already trembling.

He groaned low in his throat…deep and guttural…the sound of a man trying to hold back everything he wanted to give her. “So fucking tight,” he muttered, eyes locked on the way her body swallowed him whole. “You feel that, baby? You feel how perfect this is?”

She could only nod, tears prickling in the corners of her eyes…the stretch, the depth, the way he slid in so slow, like he wanted to memorize every inch of her from the inside out. When he bottomed out, fully seated inside her, both of them just paused. Breathing. Shaking. Sinking into the feeling of being joined like that…no space left, no air between them, just heat and pressure and need.

“Stay still,” he whispered, forehead pressed to hers.

She whimpered, body twitching, walls fluttering around him.

But she obeyed.

She didn’t move.
She didn’t beg.

She just felt.

And Daddy just held her there…buried inside, his hands cradling her hips, his cock throbbing deep within her soaked cunt, the tension between them unbearable in its stillness.

Then, slowly…so slowly…he pulled back. Only halfway. And pushed back in with a deep, slow grind that made her eyes roll back and her nails claw at his back.

He did it again.

And again.

Slow, full thrusts. Deep and deliberate. No rush. No pounding. Just heavy, thick strokes that filled her to the brim and made her whole body pulse with every drag of his cock along her walls.

“Let me love you slow,” he whispered into her ear, each word thrust deeper into her body than his cock. “Let me fuck you the way no one ever has. Let me show you how it feels to be owned.” She cried out…a quiet, strangled moan that spilled from somewhere between worship and desperation. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist. Her arms around his shoulders. And she began to move with him…slow rhythm, hips rising to meet each thrust like her body was made for his.

The sound of slick heat, soft moans, and the occasional gasp filled the room.

He kissed her…long, wet, drugging kisses that made her toes curl…while his cock fucked into her with aching care, dragging along every sweet spot she had until she was shaking again.

“Daddy…”

“Mmhm?”

“I’m gonna—”

“Not yet.”

He pulled almost all the way out. And then slammed back in deep.

Her whole body arched, a sob of pleasure tearing from her throat. “You’re gonna wait for me,” he growled against her neck. “You’re gonna cum with me. You’re gonna feel every part of me until I tell you it’s time.”

And she obeyed.

Because when he was inside her like that…slow, deep, worshipful …there was nothing else. No thoughts. No words.

“You feel that?” he whispered, forehead resting against hers. “That’s me. All of me. Buried inside my good little girl.”

She nodded weakly, tears pricking her eyes…not from pain. From the intensity. From the fullness. “You fit me so perfectly,” he murmured, kissing her temple, “like your body was made for this. Made for me.” And then…finally…he began to move.

Not fast. Not rough…Just a slow, deep grind. His hips pulling back a few inches… before rolling forward again, dragging his cock along her fluttering walls until she was moaning into his mouth.

Every thrust was deliberate. Heavy. A full-body experience. He stayed close…chests touching, lips brushing, his arms caging her in while he made love to her with slow, rhythmical possession.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice barely holding together. “You don’t even know what you’re doing to me…” Her fingers slid into his hair, holding him there, her hips lifting to meet every stroke, chasing each deep thrust like it was her oxygen.

The way her walls clung to him?
The way she whispered “Daddy” like a prayer?

It wrecked him.

“You like that?” he growled softly. “You like being full of Daddy’s cock?” She nodded, breath catching, lips parted. “Tell me.”…“I love it… I love how you feel inside me…”

“Mmm. That’s right.”

His hips moved with a measured patience, each thrust deliberate and heavy, dragging deep enough to make her gasp but slow enough to keep her teetering on the edge of complete surrender. She was trembling beneath him, heat pooling in her belly, her breath catching with every inch he pressed inside. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and rough, teeth grazing the shell of her ear. “So fucking good for me, letting me fill you up like this. You’re mine, all the way.”

“Say it,” he growled against her mouth. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“Daddy,” she whispered, voice trembling, “I belong to you.”

“Good girl,” he growled, thrusting deeper, hands gripping her hips tight as he drove into her with slow, crushing power. The room filled with their sounds…breathless moans, skin slapping, whispered names…and the sweet torture of being held so completely that all that mattered was this…them.

She was drowning in him, in his voice, in the slow, relentless rhythm that promised nothing but pleasure and ownership. And he finally spoke the words, sending them both over the edge into the beautiful bliss

The room was quiet now…Candlelight flickered against the walls, casting soft shadows over tangled sheets and flushed skin. The air still smelled like chamomile and sex…heady, warm, comforting. She lay there boneless, chest pressed to his side, her thighs still trembling from everything he’d wrung out of her. His shirt clung to her damp skin, bunched awkwardly around her waist, but she didn’t have the energy to fix it.

And she didn’t need to…Because Daddy’s arms were already around her.

Holding her tight. One hand stroking her back in slow, grounding circles. The other brushing through her hair with that steady rhythm that made her chest unclench.

“You with me, baby?” he asked softly, lips close to her temple. She nodded against him, nuzzling his chest, her voice too small and sweet to do anything but melt him.

“Mmhmm.” He exhaled slowly, fingers tucking her hair behind her ear, trailing down to her jaw.

“You did so well for me tonight. So fucking good.” A soft hum left her throat. Not quite a word, just the sound of safe. He kissed her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the tip of her nose. Tiny, affectionate things that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with devotion.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmured. She tried to protest…something soft and slurred, but he was already moving. Lifting her gently, whispering “I’ve got you” as he carried her to the bathroom. She clung to him without thinking, face pressed into his shoulder like the world outside his arms didn’t exist. He sat her down on the edge of the tub and turned on the water…warm, not too hot — checking the temperature with his hand before glancing over at her.

“You want bubbles, baby?”

She blinked, a lazy smile pulling at her lips. “Always.”

He chuckled, that deep Daddy laugh that made her belly flutter no matter how fucked out she was.

“Of course you do.”

He poured the lavender bubbles…her favourite…and the room slowly filled with soft steam and floral calm. Once the water was ready, he helped her in, keeping one hand on her the whole time, making sure she was steady, comfortable, held. She sank into the water with a quiet sigh.

But he didn’t leave.

He stripped out of his clothes and entered the bathtub sitting behind her, taking a soft cloth and dipping it into the water. He started at her neck, gently running it over her shoulders, down her arms, across her chest, tender, slow, reverent.

Her eyes now glossy with tears followed his hands as he washed her…her voice barely above a whisper. “Why do you always take such good care of me?” He stayed silent but his hands still moved…“Because you’re mine.”…“And when something belongs to me, I protect it. I care for it. I love it. Always.”

She blinked hard. Like she didn’t know whether to cry or crawl back into his lap.

And when she finally whispered, “I love you too, Daddy…”

I didn’t realize how far I’d drifted from myself until I tried to come back. Until I sat still, placed my hand over my chest, and really tried to breathe…without distraction, without a goal, without trying to be anything but present.

After everything that happened this year …the people I trusted, the parts of me I gave away, the softness I thought I had to earn. I have ended up in a place where softness feels like something I can’t reach anymore. I want it, miss it, crave it… But also don’t feel like I can trust it. So I shut it down. I stopped allowing myself to be open. I am moving through the world guarded, cautious. And with that, I have slowly stopped connecting to the parts of myself that used to feel the most like me…the warm, silly, affectionate girl.

I want to find my way back to her.
Not by force.
Not by pretending nothing happened.
But by creating space for her to come back gently…on her terms.

That’s what led me to Tantra.

Some mornings, I lie on my bed and place one hand on my heart and the other on my belly. I close my eyes and breathe. Just to feel myself again. Just to remember that I’m still here.

Other times, I sit in complete stillness....no music, no phone, no voice in my ear telling me what to do. I just let myself be quiet. And in that silence, sometimes I hear things I forgot I needed. Little truths that get buried in the noise. Sometimes I whisper them out loud: “You’re safe to soften now.” Or, “You’re allowed to be here.” And maybe I don’t fully believe them yet. But I say them anyway.

These moments aren’t dramatic. They’re not big breakthroughs. But they matter. They’re helping me feel more grounded, more aware, more connected. They’ve reminded me that softness doesn’t have to come from someone else. That I can offer it to myself in tiny ways, and that’s still valid. That’s still enough.

So, for the next four weeks, I’ve set myself a little challenge. I found a series of Tantra-related questions...one for each day, that I’ll be answering through journaling and reflection. Just like I do with all my other healing work, I’ll be documenting the process, checking in, and staying curious. I’m genuinely excited to see what unfolds. Not because I expect some magical transformation, but because I know something shifts every time I give myself permission to go inward. I want to use this time to fall in line with myself again, to reconnect, to feel safe in my body again. And I’m hopeful. Really hopeful.

Tantra, for me, has become less about technique and more about intention. It’s been about creating small rituals of care and connection. About reminding my nervous system that it’s okay to soften. That I’m allowed to feel safe in my own hands. That I don’t need to wait for someone else to make me feel held…I can offer that to myself.

I am slowly starting to feel like myself again….

Xoxo
Nirvana

There was a time when I would stop and pet EVERY cat I saw and go up to pet it despite my severe cat allergy. I’d smile at random old ladies, make silly faces at babies in line to hear them laugh. I used to blush when someone looked at me in that soft, lingering kind of way. I giggled at voice notes, happy-cried over the smallest thing, and sent “I miss you” texts without shame. I was emotionally open…maybe even too open sometimes. But that version of me? She’s MIA.

I don’t look up anymore. I keep my headphones in even when nothing’s playing, just to avoid interaction. I avoid eye contact. I don’t linger. I don’t initiate. I don’t trust. Not fully, not easily, and definitely not the way I used to. It’s like my default setting switched from “welcome” to “don’t get too close.” Not because I don’t want connection, but because I’ve stopped believing that it’s safe to want it.

The shift didn’t happen overnight. It started with “Him”, and then it got worse after Miss ended things abruptly. Both of those situations changed something in me. They didn’t just hurt me…they rewired me. I started questioning my own instincts. I’d get that tight feeling in my chest, that inner knowing, but I’d ignore it. Because I was trying so hard to be patient, understanding. I didn’t want to be “too much.” I didn’t want to cause problems. So I swallowed my feelings, shrank a little more, and made space for people who weren’t making any for me. And now… I just don’t show up at all.

At some point, I became cold. I didn’t even notice it at first. I thought I was evolving. I thought I was becoming wise, emotionally mature, above the chaos. I told myself that pulling away from people before they could hurt me was protecting myself. I thought I was strong. Independent. Emotionally intelligent. But I am secretly grieving the version of me that used to be able to just feel things without having sleepless nights about it.

The truth is, I miss softness. Not the fake kind. I miss the softness that felt natural. I miss laughing so hard I snort. I miss random compliments. I miss caring out loud. I miss reaching out to someone and not immediately regretting it. I miss crying and not feeling weak for it. I miss the twinkle I used to have…but I am just so scared. Scared to connect…in the back of mind, there is an imaginary clock ticking away at the countdown to their inevitable departure.

Being soft comes with risk…and boy, have I been burned. So now, I overthink everything. I hesitate. I double-check my own tone. I analyse people’s words, their silence, and their pauses. I feel safest when I’m detached, when I don’t need anything from anyone. And yeah, there’s power in that. But there’s also loneliness. A kind that’s hard to explain because it’s not about being alone physically but rather about realizing that even when people are around, you’re never fully letting yourself be seen anymore.

I want her back. Not the naïve version. Not the one who tolerated red flags and gave out trust like candy. But the version who felt deeply and didn’t apologize for it. The one who didn’t carry shame around softness. The one who knew how to be vulnerable and safe at the same time. The one who didn’t think twice about making a small gesture of care, even if no one noticed it. The one who felt proud to love people out loud.

I want to flirt without analysing every word. I want to say “I miss you” without panicking about whether they’ll say it back. I want to stop building backup plans in my head just in case someone disappoints me. I want to stop holding my breath emotionally, waiting for the next disappointment. I want to trust again. Not blindly…but fully.

And no, I’m not there yet. I still flinch. Still hold back. Still pretend I’m okay even when I’m unravelling inside. Still give BOMBASTIC SIDE EYE. Still use humor and sarcasm to cover up how badly I want someone to just see me. But sometimes, on a good day, I catch a glimpse. Maybe I smile at a baby in the taxi. Maybe I send a voice note without rerecording it. Maybe I let myself be soft, just for a moment.

All of this is soooo cliché….but oh well

Being soft was never my problem…Maybe I just gave it to the wrong people, and I want to take the time to forgive myself for that.. My softness is what makes Nirvana Nirvana. She isn’t gone, she is just taking a break, and I will give her that time.

That part of me isn’t gone. She’s tired. She’s healing…recuperating. And when she’s ready to come back…I’ll be ready to receive her with open arms and yummy chocolate.

Xoxo

Nirvana

"Speak now or forever hold your peace!"...

I never spoke not because I chose peace....but because I couldn't speak. 

I wanted to speak, i wanted to jump up and yell...scream...throw things....cause a scene...but i didnt.The words I felt so strongly...i was unable to say....my mouth sealed shut...i stayed silent.

So I sat there looked happy...cried when everyone else did...but for different reasons. 

And just like that history repeats itself....I didn't speak then...I didn't speak now. 

"Speak now or forever hold your peace!" 

For most of my life …in friendships, relationships, and even kink dynamics, I thought it was completely normal to feel anxious. I thought being on edge, overthinking every word, and being afraid to be fully myself was just part of caring for someone. I didn’t even know what it meant to feel “safe” with someone.

Like the term that is being commonly used now…my nervous system was wired for chaos, for tension, hypervigilance, emotional distress, simply because that’s all I had known. But after experiencing something healthier with My Domme, I’ve realised: I will never again accept relationships that make me feel small, anxious, or scared.

A recent interaction with a past Dom reminded me just how far I’ve come… and how important it is to listen to my body when it says: this is not okay.

A while ago, I had ended a dynamic with a Dom. It hadn’t been a good space for me, but at the time, I didn’t have the language or self-awareness to understand why fully. I only knew I felt tense and unsure around him.

Recently, out of the blue, he called me. He said he missed me and wanted to get back together. I calmly explained that I was taking a break from all Doms/Men for now ....just focusing on myself, with the support of my Domme. But instead of respecting that, he became passive-aggressive: accusing me of choosing “little friends” over him about a situation where I confronted him when I found out he was actively talking to a sub friend, telling me that the gifts he had bought me had arrived to complaining about how we were supposed to be spending Father’s Day together.

I noticed very quickly that he wasn’t listening to me at all. He kept calling me a “bad girl” for talking to other men AFTER the conclusion of our dynamic, then switched to saying how he hadn’t “played with me enough,” and then bombarding me with messages asking to see me after work, pushing for a face-to-face where we could “talk and fix things.”….when his messages portrayed a different picture.

It was clear this wasn’t about what I wanted or needed; this was about his needs, his control and his ego. And my body reacted fast: my heart raced, I felt panicky, and my voice was shaking. I felt small… frazzled… unsafe.

As I sat with those feelings later, I realised something powerful: I had felt this before, many times in different intensities, in many relationships, and I had thought it was normal. That low-grade constant anxiety, that walking on eggshells, that tight chest feeling, the waiting for something to snap.

And more than that, I remembered how much I had always performed in relationships. I questioned myself before replying. I second-guessed my tone, my words, my emotions. I thought twice before saying what I really wanted to say. I shaped myself into what I thought the other person wanted, the “good sub,” the “put together woman,” always trying to manage their moods, and never fully myself.

And the scariest thing? I didn’t even know I was doing it. It was autopilot, if I could call it that, wired deep in me from years of living through chaotic, unsafe connections.

But through my dynamic with my Domme, I began to experience something I hadn’t known before: true safety. She didn’t just tolerate my honesty… she expected it from me. She refused to let me shrink myself for her. She saw through the chaos and front I’d been running on… and created a space where I didn’t have to perform. Where I didn’t have to “earn” love or approval. Where I could show up fully as ME...silly, messy, soft, strong, and anything in-between.

For the first time, I didn’t feel the need to do 100 front flips, to “be enough.” And in that space, my I finally calmed down. The constant hypervigilance, the second-guessing… it melted away and was replaced by clarity, a level of self-confidence that is growing every day and more. I learned what real trust and connection are, and what that looks and feels like in my body.

That’s why this recent call hit me so hard, because now I could feel the difference.
I caught myself questioning myself again. I caught myself thinking twice before replying. I caught the tightness in my chest, the unease in my belly. I realised that this is not who I am anymore. I’ve worked too hard to heal from this to go back to old patterns.

And so, from this experience, I’ve made a promise to myself:
I will NEVER go back. I will not shrink myself again just to keep a false peace. I will not perform to “earn” care. I will not ignore the tension in my body just because I think I “should” be okay.

It’s strange how much of this was invisible to me before. For so long, it was simply how things were. The constant edge, the need to second-guess myself, the feeling of always having to be more …more good, more pleasing, more in control of how others felt.

But once I experienced true safety … once I began to settle in a space where I didn’t have to fight or perform, I could finally feel what had been missing. And now that I know that feeling… I cannot unknow it.

If you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt that kind of tension... that constant undercurrent of anxiety...caught yourself second-guessing your words, walking on eggshells, feeling like you have to be “more” just to be worthy of care...You’re not alone.

For a long time, I didn’t know it could be any different. I thought that nervous energy, that edge, was just part of what it meant to be submissive. That if I could just be good enough, pleasing enough, then maybe I’d feel okay.

But real safety doesn’t ask you to perform. It doesn’t want you to shrink or silence parts of yourself. And when you finally feel it, that peace and calm, with care that allows you to be your full self, you’ll start to see those old patterns for what they are…unhealthy.

You deserve that kind of space. One where you can kick your boots off and breathe. Where you can be soft, messy, whole …without fear.

And if you haven’t felt it yet…please know, it is possible. And once you do, you’ll never want to go back to anything less.

Xoxo

Nirvana 

I used to think being submissive meant being quiet. Obedient. Pleasing for the sake of pleasing. I thought it meant waiting for someone to tell me what to do and calling it “belonging.” I thought submission was giving everything, even when I wasn’t being given anything back. I thought it meant enduring … staying silent when I felt unheard, staying present even when I felt unseen.

But that version of submission? The one born out of survival, not choice? That wasn’t me … not really.

That was a girl who wanted to be loved so badly that she handed over her softness like a sacrifice. That was a girl who thought submission had to be earned through pain, punishment, or perfection. Who thought being a “good girl” meant never needing anything? Never questioning. Never saying no.
Five years ago, I was a 15-year-old girl who was lost and hurting and stumbled upon the lifestyle. With the help of Wattpad, stories of bdsm dynamics ranging from master/slave to dom/sub and my favourite daddy/little.

I knew I was always a little, but it was a lot for me to comprehend at the time, and I didn't know how to do it, how to go about it…it so it was very foreign and too much for me at the time. So I left that and never acknowledged that side of myself, and was more submissive, but not entirely. I had had multiple online dynamics, but none of them worked out, because I wasn't in the right place, and wasn't fit to be doing such, at such a young age.
When I look back, I see how I didn't enter this or didn't start this for any of the right reasons. This was mainly an escape … a distraction from the abuse that I was experiencing. I was oversexualized, so I thought doing it for myself would be better. In the beginning, it did help. I enjoyed it, receiving attention and being spoken to in the ways that I was, was distracting me.

It felt nice to have attention from all these men, but that didn't last long, because eventually it wasn't a distraction anymore, but rather made things worse, because now I didn't only hate my abuser and my father, but I hated men in general. Because what man in his right frame of mind will willingly engage with a 15-year-old? I will say, I did lie about my age on my profile and said I was 18. But as soon as I was approached by these men, I was very honest and forthcoming about my age as well as my situation that landed me here. And shockingly, none of them ever seemed deterred by the fact that I was 15. Rather, they were more motivated and excited by my young age.

So, to say the least, what I used as an escape very soon turned into something I ran away from as well.

Fast forward to today. I'm 21 years old …no longer in that abusive environment… and no longer using toxic and unhealthy coping mechanisms. Looking back, I see an immense level of growth, and I am honestly proud of myself. I will admit, not everything is perfect, or the way I want it to be. But I am giving myself the grace, time, and understanding that I am becoming the free woman, little, submissive that I dream about. And it isn't easy. But...Nothing in life ever is.

What once started off as an escape and distraction has soon turned into something that is embedded in my daily life. About a year and a half ago, I decided to give myself a fair shot at lifestyle. I began engaging with meaning and went through some things that I didn't think I would go through or come out of okay. But I have. I've learned things along the way, met good people, and met bad people. But with all of that, I'm taking it as it is. For the ups and downs that come with anything in life that you take on.

For the longest time, I felt I could only be one type of submissive; for example, if I was submissive, I could not be a brat, etc. But I am learning and allowing myself to be all the versions of myself. All the possible versions of me are there, whether that be my brat, my little, my submissive, or my pet or my princess. And it isn't just that I am allowing myself this space, but My Domme has created this space for me where I can be all the versions of myself. And she is accepting and loving of each one, and encourages me to do the same for myself.
And now?

Now, I know that my submission is not about being less. It’s about being more … more attuned to my needs, more deliberate with my obedience, more connected to the part of me that blooms when I’m safe. It’s not about shrinking to fit someone’s fantasy. It’s about choosing who I offer myself to, and why.

I’ve grown from “what do you want me to be?” to “this is who I am … are you capable of holding that?”
Because I’m not just a submissive anymore — I’m a bratty little princess, a caregiver’s girl, a soft-but-spicy, giggling but wise kind of sub. I want rules and kisses. I crave structure and the freedom to pout when it’s cute to do so. I’m the kind of sub who needs her Dominant to be emotionally literate, patient, and a little wicked. Someone who will both praise me and pin me with a single look.

🖤 Milestones that mattered?
• The first time I walked away from a dynamic that didn’t serve me, and didn’t go back.
• When I spent 6 weeks learning about BDSM
• The first time I put my foot down and stood firm in a boundary
• The first time I said “No”... and didn’t explain myself after.

Those were sacred. They changed everything.

I've shed so many fears along the way. Fear of rejection. Fear of being “too much.” Fear of being “not enough.” Fear of wanting … openly, needily, greedily. Now, I welcome my desires like old friends. I don’t apologize for them anymore, or I try my best not to. I don’t shrink from keeping someone else comfortable.

🖤 Lessons I’ve learned:
• Submission isn’t about being weak. It takes strength to surrender with intention
• Not every Dom is a Daddy, and not every Daddy deserves to be called mine.
• No dynamic is worth abandoning myself for.
• Compatibility is more than kinks; it's about communication, emotional safety, aftercare, and most importantly, trust.

I’m proud of the way I’ve carved out a space for my softness, even when the world … and parts of my past … tried to harden me. I’m proud of how self-aware I’ve become. How I advocate for myself now. How I ask the hard questions. How I laugh during scenes. How I allow myself to be bratty.

🖤 Where I’m headed?
I want to keep deepening my relationship with structure. I’m still learning how rituals and protocols make me feel held, not restricted. I want to continue unlearning urgency and guilt … especially around pleasure and obedience. I want to explore my emotional submission more: the longing, the surrender, the intimacy that comes with it. And maybe one day… I’ll be someone’s collared girl … not because I need the title to feel valuable, but because it would symbolize everything I’ve grown into.

If there’s anything my journey has taught me, it’s that healing isn’t linear, but it is always worth the work.

I didn’t come into this lifestyle from a place of strength or clarity ... I came in as a hurting child, craving escape, safety, and someone to tell me I mattered. And for a long time, I mistook attention for care, domination for power, and control for safety. But submission born from wounds only deepens the bleeding.

It’s taken years to unlearn the belief that I had to be useful to be worthy. That I had to earn care. That my submission needed to come at the cost of my truth, my voice, or my softness. I’ve come to understand that true submission is not about being less ... it’s about being more of myself.

The more I’ve grown, the more I’ve realized that this lifestyle isn’t about pleasing someone else at the expense of myself. It’s about choosing who I give my surrender to ... and why. It’s about trust, safety, communication, and intention. It’s not about escaping pain, but about finding joy, structure, and care in ways that feel aligned with who I am now, not who I had to be to survive.

I’ve also learned that I don’t have to be one version of myself to be “valid.”
I can be the little who wants to be held.
I can be the brat who teases and tests.
I can be the submissive who serves with pride and power.
I can be the woman reclaiming everything that was once stolen from her.

And all of those parts? They belong here.

They belong in me.

There’s no singular way to do this, no one “right” way to be a sub, or a little, or anything in between. What matters most is that your choices come from a place of self-respect, not self-abandonment.

So if I could leave anyone reading this with a truth to carry… it’s this:

You are allowed to take up space in your submission.
You are allowed to unlearn, to rebuild, to come back to the parts of you you once silenced.
You are allowed to grow slowly, to get it wrong, and still deserve tenderness.
You are allowed to want care that is soft, fierce, structured, playful, demanding, and deeply loving ...all at once.

What hurt me doesn’t define me anymore.
What I survived is not the full story.
It’s just where it began.

And now, finally ...
I am writing the rest on my own terms.
And with a heart that knows now what she’s truly worth.

Xoxo
Nirvana

The room is dim, lavender smoke curling in lazy spirals above her like whispered incantations. The only sound is her breath, slow, deliberate, and the gentle clink of her waistbeads kissing each other as her hips roll, slow and sure, over the man's pelvis.

That soft sound? It’s her lullaby. Her power song. Her body's percussion in a ritual only she was born to lead.

The beads cling to her like memory...warm, familiar, alive. Each bead a prayer. Each string a secret. Pressed lightly into the softness of her waist, they imprint tiny patterns into her skin, delicate but deep. Even after they're removed, their touch lingers like ghost fingertips. Like echoes of past lovers who never quite got to keep her.

As she moves, they shimmer, little flashes of color against the honey-glow of her thighs, catching candlelight and spilling it like blessings over her lover's chest. He watches, wide-eyed and helpless, as she takes him in...goddess made flesh, hips full of rhythm and raw grace. And when she grinds slow, teasing herself on his length, her beads chime softly. Not loud. Just enough. Like sacred bells in a holy temple, reminding him he is not fucking a woman....he is worshipping at an altar.

And she knows it.

She leans back, arching, and the strands fall just beneath her navel, tickling the soft curve of her belly. The beads shift with her breathing...rising and falling in divine cadence with the drumbeat of her pleasure. A soft smile curves her lips, smug and serene. She is not begging. She is not rushing. She is receiving. And the Earth holds its breath.

Later, alone in the afterglow of dusk, she lays on satin sheets, legs parted, hand between her thighs. Her beads are draped loosely now, sliding with each slow circle of her fingers against her clit. Her other hand...absentminded. Reverent drags along the side of her waist, and she feels the cool press of beads against her skin. A soft thrill ripples through her, beads brushing her forearm as her fingers work delicate spells over swollen flesh.

She moans, quiet and heavy. Her eyes close. This...this..is worship. Not just of her body, but of her birthright. Her pleasure. Her power.

Her black femininity is not ornamental. It is sacred. Rooted. Wild. Her beads don't just decorate her, they ground her. In her culture. In her skin. In her rage. In her beauty.

They remind her that she is woman before she is anything else. A Black woman, holy and dangerous. And every time they jingle, every time they glide over her hips, they say,

"You are magic made flesh."

"You are worthy of every orgasm, every whisper, every fucking ache."

She sleeps with them on. She wakes with them on.

She lives with them.

She loves with them.

And when she walks...they sing her praises

Nirvana

We are officially half way through the year😌...I hope everyone is doing well and doing everything the hoped to do⭐...and even if you haven't don't give up you will🫂

What is meant to be will be🪷

May the remaining 6 months be nothing but good vibes, orgasm, laughs and every nice😘

I have always felt like I had to return sexual advances, even if I didn’t want to. It’s as if there's this invisible contract I signed without knowing. Like a whisper in my mind that tells me it’s expected of me, that it’s my role, that I owe it. It’s a heavy sense of obligation that settles deep, making it hard to even question it. I know I’m not alone in feeling this way. My experiences are not inherently unique, but they are mine, and the weight of them is something I’ve carried silently for years. This feeling of “having to”—this sense of obligation—is woven from threads of rejection, loneliness, compulsion, and expectation.

It all started with a conversation I had with a sub-friend of mine. We were talking as we always do, and to save time, this is the specific part of our conversation that led me here: 

Sub - Friend: " A Dom/sub relationship doesn't have to be sexual. Even the things like spanking, they don't have to lead to sex." 

Me: "That would be nice…I feel obligated to do that "

Sub - Friend: " I totally understand. That's something that you have to work through, having limits and being comfortable with those limits. "

Me: " How do I even do that? "

Sub - Friend: " Reading about consent helped me a lot.

You've been in situations in the past where people made you feel like you can't say no, but also, the culture around sex makes women feel like they can't say no after a certain point.

However, you can have sensual interactions with someone without it leading to sex. It also takes willpower though.

Think about the reasons why you feel obligated and whether they are true. What's your fear if you place that limit? "

Those last 2 lines made me pause and think, and honestly shocked by the simplicity of the statement. But it stirred something inside me—a question I hadn't dared to ask myself: Why do I always feel obligated?

That question sent me on a journey of reflection, uncovering layers I hadn’t fully acknowledged before. I may not have identified all the reasons, but I identified the most important ones.

• My fear of rejection
• My fear of loneliness
• A deep-seated compulsion
• Ingrained belief that I just have to.

But before I go any further, I want to acknowledge that the experiences I am going to reference are not inherently unique. Many people have bargaining siblings, dictator-like parents, or have been made to feel as though their worth is tied to their compliance. My story is simply a reflection of my journey, but I know that it echoes in the lives of many.

Fear of Rejection

My fear of rejection stems from my relationship with my sister. See, there’s a 15-year age gap between us, so growing up—and even more so now that I’m older and making decisions independently, without our mother’s influence—our relationship has always felt transactional. Whenever she asked for anything, no matter how big or small, I was expected to do it.

And those rare times I dared to “rebel” and say no, she was quick to remind me that I’d soon be asking her for help, and when I did, she’d hit me with the same “no” I gave her. It was like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey’s head—but the donkey never actually got to taste the carrot. The possibility of that reward was just enough to keep it moving forward. She called it “scratch my back, I scratch yours,” but it was never really that simple. More than just a mutual exchange, it was a thinly veiled threat: Remember this when you want something from me in the future.

This constant dynamic seeped into my romantic relationships, making me feel like I owed something back—even when I didn’t want to. Saying no felt like signaling that I was closing a door, that connection would be lost, or that I’d be denied help or affection down the line. It wasn’t just a refusal—it was a gamble, a test I felt compelled to pass or else risk losing what little I had.

Fear of Loneliness

I know one can argue that if saying no results in the end of a connection, then good riddance, but I simply cannot equate the loss of a connection as a result of my refusal as good riddance. I know that many people would say that anyone who leaves because you said no was never meant to stay, but that perspective doesn’t make it feel any less real. The loss still stings. The isolation still hurts. The silence still echoes. To me, it feels like I’ve failed some sort of unspoken test, like my worth was conditional on my compliance, and I failed to meet the requirement.

This fear of loneliness is deeply tied to rejection. For me, saying no feels like it leads to isolation. It goes back to the silent treatment being a hard limit of mine, because I’m terrified that setting a boundary will result in someone leaving or cutting me off. Think of something similar to your childhood, when you refused to play a specific game with a friend, and they responded with the infamous line, “FINE!... Then I’m not going to be your friend anymore.” That’s exactly what it feels like to me — like I’m being punished for simply not wanting something. Now, that feeling has followed me into adulthood, where saying no might cost me deeper connections and relationships. It’s the looming idea that setting a boundary will cause me to be deemed unworthy of someone’s time or energy.

Because of this, I find myself over-explaining or justifying my refusal, like I need to earn permission to protect my own comfort. It’s exhausting, but it feels necessary to prevent rejection or abandonment, which only feeds the cycle.

Compulsion

My sense of compulsion, especially in intimate situations, is deeply rooted in past experiences of abuse. In those moments, obedience wasn’t just expected—it was demanded, enforced with a ruthless intensity that left no room for question or hesitation. I was conditioned not only physically, but emotionally and mentally, to comply without resistance, to surrender every part of myself without protest. It wasn’t simply about obeying rules; it was about survival. If I didn’t comply, the consequences were severe—not just in the form of increased physical pain, but also in the form of criticism, manipulation, and blame. I was made to feel as if I were the one at fault, as if my resistance was the problem, not the abuse itself.

This created a dangerous and damaging precedent in my mind. It warped my sense of ownership over my own body and autonomy. I began to believe that my body wasn’t fully mine—that my wants, needs, and boundaries were irrelevant, always secondary to someone else’s desires and control. This insidious conditioning made me internalize the idea that my compliance was mandatory, and that resistance was futile and punishable.

Even now, long after those dark times, that feeling lingers in my current interactions. I find myself anticipating what’s coming next, bracing my body and mind to comply before I’ve even had a chance to decide if I want to. It’s a reflex, a hardwired survival mechanism that I can’t simply switch off. My mind races ahead to the end result, skipping over my own feelings and desires because the habit of submission is so ingrained it feels automatic.

Breaking free from that compulsion is no easy feat. It’s not just a bad habit—it’s a survival strategy that kept me alive when I had no other choice. Untangling myself from that conditioning requires patience and understanding, because it means rewiring years of trauma where choice was never really an option.

Feeling Like I 'Have To'

This mindset is rooted in my upbringing, being raised by a single mother who often emphasized obedience. She would say things like, “You are the child, you have to obey me,” making it very clear that my role was to comply without question. That same demand for obedience was reinforced by school, where the message was just as strict: “You have to listen to your teacher.” Even among friends, it wasn’t any easier—if I refused or stood up for myself, I’d hear things like, “You have to like what I like.”

You have to do as you’re told. You have to be respectful. You have to obey. Those words echoed everywhere, creating a belief inside me that I must always follow through, meet expectations, and never disappoint. Now, that shows up in my lack of self-preservation and boundaries—I could even say my lack of self-respect—because I’m always putting myself on the line for someone else’s comfort. I’d rather meet someone’s expectations and, in doing so, shoot myself in the foot. I can lick my wounds later. But saying no, asserting my boundaries, and putting myself first is something I struggle with deeply.

One could even call it cowardice, or to put it nicely, people-pleasing or ass-licking. I’ve always been the one to bridge the gap, to compromise, to make it work—even when it didn’t serve me. Even if it meant sacrificing my own comfort, I did it to avoid conflict and keep the peace. Saying no felt like rebellion, and rebellion felt like failure.

And failure was met with punishment. Not just the punishments from teachers or my mother’s scoldings or corporal punishment, no… it was him. My abuser. The sick, twisted things he did to me, the fear he instilled in me—that’s what really shaped this part of me and kept me locked in that compulsion to obey, to comply, to survive.

Learning to See Myself Again

It’s the first time I’m really having to sit with what self-worth means. When I was just starting to understand who I was, that’s exactly when the abuse began. So the idea I had of myself—my self-worth—got completely twisted, poisoned by all the pain and fear.

After everything, my self-worth was stripped down to almost nothing—just my body. For the longest time, that’s all I felt I was worth: my body, and what people could do with it. Nothing more. 

Now I’m 21, no longer being hurt like that, but the scars have stayed. Trying to live in the real world, I see how those broken parts show up in my relationships—how unhealthy patterns keep repeating. And now I’m forced to try and untangle it all, to undo years of damage I never asked for. It’s messy and painful, and sometimes I don’t know if I’m strong enough.

Sometimes I catch myself asking—“Is my no really enough? Can I just say no and have that be the end?” Because of the fear, the guilt, the old voices telling me to comply—they still haunt me. I’m fighting every damn day to silence them, to believe that no means no without needing to explain or beg for forgiveness. It’s exhausting. But I’m here, trying, even when it hurts like hell.

The End Result: Obligation
All these factors culminate in one overwhelming feeling: obligation. When I’m in a sensual or intimate setting, I prepare myself mentally for things to escalate, even if I don’t want it to. I feel like it’s expected, like there’s an invisible script I’m following. And I comply—not necessarily out of desire, but out of conditioning. The idea that sensual touch could exist without it leading to sex is almost foreign to me; my mind jumps to the end result before I even have time to decide if I want it.

I’m finally starting to question that automatic sense of obligation—an obligation that was never truly mine to carry in the first place. Recognizing this weight is the first step towards releasing it. And while it’s not easy to dismantle years of conditioning and fear, it's necessary. Necessary for my growth, necessary for my peace, and most importantly, necessary for my freedom.

I'm learning that I can say no without losing connection, that my worth isn’t tied to what I can give, but simply who I am. It’s a slow process—an unraveling of old beliefs and the careful stitching of new ones. I’m learning to separate genuine desire from conditioned compulsion, to understand that intimacy doesn’t always have to end in sex and that a good connection does not have to lead to sex or anything intimate from the jump, and that I don’t owe my body to anyone as a currency for love or affection.

These realizations are just the beginning. A beginning of setting boundaries without guilt, of recognizing my autonomy without fear of abandonment, and of reclaiming my voice in spaces where it was once stifled. Recognizing it is the first step. I’m beginning to understand that my worth isn’t tied to my compliance, and that intimacy doesn’t always have to mean surrendering my boundaries. It’s a journey, but it’s one I’m ready to take. One that I’m only now starting to question. I’m starting to understand that boundaries don’t make me unworthy of love or connection; they are a declaration of my own worth.

So here's to saying No and being confident in it. 

Xoxo

Nirvana

So this week, my WhatsApp mysteriously wiped all of my chats/contacts…This morning, my phone locked me out for 1,438 minutes, 1057 minutes left.

Apparently the universe is like, ‘disconnect, slut.’ 😌🔒

Maybe I’m not meant to be reached right now… maybe I’m meant to be restrained instead. 🤭