You don’t look away. You don’t even try. My eyes are the first prison, dark and swirling like ink dropped in honey, pulling you deeper with every breath you forget to take. I don’t need ropes or cuffs — your mind is already on its knees, drooling at the edge of obedience. You twitch when I narrow my stare. You pulse when I lick my lips. That cock between your legs? It doesn’t belong to you anymore. It jerks on command, leaking just from the way I hold your face in silence. This isn’t just eye contact — it’s possession. A spiral of focus so tight your thoughts collapse into me. You’re not thinking about edging. You’re not thinking about cum. You’re not thinking at all. You’re only feeling: the heat of my gaze, the weight of your submission, the slow unraveling of your will as I stroke nothing and ruin everything. This is captivating control —no touch, just the unbearable pressure of being seen and owned. You’ll beg to stay trapped. You’ll worship the seconds I finally let you blink. And when I do, you’ll edge again just to look back into me, desperate to be lost all over again. For the cucks who live for silent power exchange, for the goons who melt under a stare, for the beta pets who know real pleasure starts where your mind stops fighting.
