An Ode to Anticipation: The Ritual of Becoming His

The ritual begins long before the shower. It starts with a single thought: him. It starts with the memory of his hands, the sound of his voice, the specific way his eyes darken when he’s pleased. Tonight is date night, and my body is the offering.

The Canvas: Purification

First, the canvas. The shower is hot, almost to the point of discomfort, but I like it that way. It feels like a purification. I shave my legs until they are impeccably smooth, knowing he’ll appreciate the feeling as his hand travels up my thigh. I wash my hair with the scent he bought me—a subtle jasmine and vanilla he once said he loved. Every action is a prayer, a preparation for the worship to come.

The Enhancement: Painting for Pleasure

Then, the makeup. This isn’t about hiding; it’s about enhancement. It’s about painting my face the way he likes to see it when it’s contorted in pleasure. I apply my foundation with a damp sponge, blending it until my skin is flawless. I don’t do a dramatic, smoky eye. He prefers it when my eyes look big, innocent, and a little desperate. So, I use a soft brown in the crease and a coat of mascara that makes my lashes long enough to cast shadows on my cheeks when I look down.

But the lips? The lips are for him. I take my time, outlining them with a pencil that matches my natural color before filling them in with a satin-finish lipstick. I choose a shade called “Barely There”—the kind of neutral that looks natural but leaves a faint, perfect stain on his skin when I’m on my knees. I press my lips together, and in the mirror, I see the mouth he loves to use.

The Offering: Curating the Experience

Now, for the clothes. This is the most important part of the ritual. I stand before my closet, not as a woman dressing for herself, but as a submissive curating an experience. I pull out a few options.

• The tight black dress? Too aggressive. He likes to feel like he’s the one in control, and that dress feels like I’m trying to compete.
• The silk pajama-style set? Too comfortable. It sends the message that I’m ready to sleep, not to serve.

My fingers land on it. A simple, dark green slip dress. The fabric is so soft it feels like a whisper against my skin. The straps are delicate, the kind that look like they would break if he pulled them too hard. The neckline is modest, but the way the fabric drapes suggests every curve beneath it. It says, “I am soft. I am yielding. I am yours.”

I put it on and stand before the full-length mirror. I turn, looking at myself from all angles. I see the girl he will see in an hour.

The Anticipation: His Pleasure

And that’s when my thoughts drift, as they always do, to the bedroom.

I think about what he likes. He doesn’t like me to be silent. He likes the sounds I make—the soft whimpers, the sharp gasps, the desperate moans I can’t hold back. He likes it when I’m a little messy, when my mascara runs just a little from the tears of overwhelming pleasure. He likes my hands to be fists in the sheets, not pushing him away but holding on for dear life as he takes what he wants.

He likes the way I arch my back when he enters me, a silent offering of my body. He likes the way I look up at him with wide, trusting eyes right before he tells me to be a good girl.

He likes to feel my submission not just in my actions, but in my very bones. He wants to know that every part of me—my mind, my body, my soul—is focused on one thing: his pleasure.

My phone buzzes on the dresser. He’s texted. “Leaving now.”

The anticipation that has been building all evening coils into a tight, hot knot in my stomach. I take one last look in the mirror. I am no longer just Jessi. I am his date. His toy. His good girl.

I am ready.