Ruin me, I plead in earnestness.
Ruin me with purpose. With the kind of intention that only belongs to hands that know exactly what they hold. Strip away every version of me that learned to survive on her own.
Peel back every layer built from fear, from pride, from the aching belief that I must always carry myself. Leave only the woman who chose, freely and wholly, to kneel before you.
Hurt me with love. I am not broken. I do not deserve suffering. But hurt me ...hurt me because I am worthy of your attention, your discipline, your devotion.
Let every strike carry more than force. Let it carry reassurance. Let it say, I see you. I have you. Stay with me. Let every ache become another way you tell me I belong.
Bless me with the pain that asks nothing of me except honesty. The pain that quiets every racing thought until there is only breath, only trust, only the certainty of this moment.
Let it drown out the noise I have carried for years. Let it become the only language my body remembers.
Touch me as though this is the first time your hands have ever found me, and the last time they ever will. We both know it is neither. We know there will be other nights, other moments, other echoes of this one.
But within these walls, time is cruelly small. There is only this breath, this heartbeat, this surrender. Nothing before it matters. Nothing after it exists.
Blindfold me, not for my sight, but to teach me that I never needed it to find you. Let me discover you through anticipation, through silence, through the spaces between each touch.
Let every pause stretch until it is unbearable, because even waiting becomes another form of worship.
And when your hand finds me again, let each strike be a promise. A promise that you are still here. A promise that I have not been forgotten. A promise that I may fall apart without fear, because you will be there to gather every scattered piece.
Let each strike also be a warning that love, real love, was never meant to leave us unchanged.
Free me from the shame that once whispered there was something wrong with longing for this. Free me from every chain forged by guilt, by embarrassment, by the fear of being too much.
Let your care become the key that unlocks every door I have kept barred against myself.
Ruin me until I no longer recognise the woman who walked into the room. Let her leave lighter than she arrived. Softer. Braver. More honest.
Let me leave carrying your marks where doubt once lived, your care where loneliness once settled, and your devotion where fear once made its home.
If I am to be ruined, let it be by love so deliberate that it remakes me. Let it be by hands that never confuse power with cruelty, nor pain with punishment.
Let it be by someone who understands that what I ask for is not suffering.
It is freedom.