There is a kind of cruelty so quiet it cannot be punished. It smiles. It nods. It tells you it is tired. It tells you you are loved. And then it turns its back in the night and gives you nothing.
This is not edging. This is not the artful withholding of pleasure, wrapped in ritual agreement, leading to a crescendo of shared submission. This is not the control of a dominant hand guiding arousal to a fine-tipped point, holding the moment, delaying the release. This is not pl
