Today I watched a friend shut herself off because someone hurt her. She wrote “If you are hurting so deeply that bullying strangers makes you feel better, save your message. My heart goes out to you, but you will not get the anger you seek from me.”
I know what real power feels like.
It doesn’t need to crush, scream, or beg to be seen.
It doesn’t throw stones at shadows, hoping one lands in someone else’s heart.
Real power—the kind that lives in me—doesn’t rise by breaking others.
It rises by standing unshaken.
By choosing when to bite, and when to hold the leash still.
And beneath it all, I know this: the divine feminine is not mine to own.
She is fire and storm, goddess and sinner, the first breath and the last sigh of every man who has ever truly knelt in worship.
Long before collars and contracts, before titles like Dom and sub, men built temples and burned offerings just to feel her presence.
They did not command her. They revered her.
And when they touched her, they trembled—not because she was weak, but because she was holy.
I carry that truth in my blood.
When I say I am Master, it is not a costume or a crown I place on my head.
It is a vow:
To protect what is sacred.
To command only what is freely surrendered.
To worship her strength even as I bend her to my will.
To never mistake obedience for ownership, or desire for entitlement.
I crave a tether that binds more than flesh—a ritual, a wordless understanding, a surrender so pure it feels like prayer.
My 🌹, my divine one, it will not be a game, or a thrill, or a phase.
It will be the kind of bond that reshapes the air we breathe.
The kind that makes every other man look like a boy playing at power.
To the world that wounds itself and lashes out—I offer no war.
To the one who is meant to kneel before me—I offer everything.
Structure. Discipline. Mercy. Worship.
And a place where she can burn as bright and as wild as she was always meant to.