Sometimes as writers, the words don’t come in a single stream but in multiple drives, each carving its own path. What poured out of me here took two shapes—two versions, both carrying the essence of Sir. Each stands on its own, each worthy of being seen. And so, they both deserve to be posted.

I kneel at the threshold, breath held,
heart pounding like a drum of worship.
The air is thick with leather and command,
a sanctuary where my body learns devotion.

Each step across the sacred floor
is a surrender, a prayer,
an offering of skin and soul
to the altar of your power.

Your gaze strips me bare
faster than your belt ever could—
every order a hymn,
every strike a psalm of belonging.

And while I bow to Sir,
hungry for discipline,
aching for the sharp edge of authority,
there is that current—
that deep, steady pull—
your Daddy energy, warm and dangerous,
wrapping me up,
claiming me softer, yet no less fierce.

So I thank you, Sir—
for the ache, the fire, the breaking,
for the way you own and undo me.
And still I ask for more:
mark me deeper,
take me further,
make me yours again and again.

This house is not built of stone and wood—
it is built of your voice,
your hands, your will, your fire.
And I will kneel here forever,
burning, begging, worshipping,
in the House of Sir.

Copyright © Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.