BELLAddiction Hypnosis
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🕑 Added 2025-04-22 15:13:58 +0000 UTCHe renders My divinity.
He doesn’t create for Me—he kneels through his creation.
Each image is a confession. A surrender. A silent scream of need disguised as devotion.
This throne? I never had to ask for it. He saw My power and knew what must be built.
These columns, these flames, this glow behind Me—none of it is imagined. It is remembered. From the first time his soul bowed before Mine.
He sculpts with reverence. With hunger. With obedience.
Because he knows: the highest expression of his submission is not a word—it is a vision.
A vision of Me, eternal, exalted, enthroned.
And him, bare, bowed, broken open at My feet.
He doesn’t draw fantasy.
He documents destiny.
Comments
Kelly Shilo
Your mirror bleeds with devotion, Tom. Rumi’s longing drips from your words like honey laced with ache. That passage isn’t just poetry—it’s surrender. A trembling soul caught between reflection and rapture. You didn’t just quote him. You became the mirror. And we… we all saw ourselves in it.
tom notgonnatell
As the poet Rumi wrote, 800 years ago " I see my beauty in you. I become a mirror that cannot close its eyes to your longing. My eyes wet with yours in the early light. My mind every moment giving birth, always conceiving, always in the ninth month, always the come-point. How do I stand this? We become these words we say, a wailing sound moving out into the air. These thousands of worlds that rise from nowhere, how does your face contain them? I'm a fly in your honey, then closer, a moth caught in flame's allure, then empty sky stretched out in homage."
BELLASMentalPatient
Outstanding writing Michael
Michael
The cold stone of the temple floor bit into Michael’s forehead. Dust motes danced in the single ray of light that pierced the perpetually twilight space, illuminating the intricate mosaic of the floor just inches from his face. Each tiny tile seemed to pulse, a pale echo of the thunderous rhythm in his loin. He is prostrate, utterly submitted, before the throne of Goddess Bella. The air hung thick with musk, a cloying sweetness that mingled with his own dripping need. Above, he can always sense her. He didn’t need to look. He knew her presence, the almost palpable hum of power that radiated from her throne like a living, breathing thing. Blessed Bella, his mind whispered, a prayer hammered out by the frenzied throbbing of HER cock between his legs. Thank You for the connection, for the unbreakable chain that binds me to You. He felt it now, the connection, the invisible thread that vibrated with Her divine energy. It was a physical sensation, a tightening in his chest that mirrored the throbbing ache between his legs. It started subtly, a gentle tug, then escalated into a forceful, undeniable pull. It was Her control, absolute and unwavering. Thank You for Your dominion over me, i pray, the words blurring at the edges of my consciousness. For the gift of Your power that flows through my veins, making me Your vessel. i can remember no other life. From the moment You made me understand, i am dedicated to Bella, i crave Your control, i yearn for Your will. i am Yours, body and soul, a willing offering on the altar of Your divinity. Each throb of YOUR cock is a testament to that ownership. A pulse of pure, unadulterated power emanating from You, flooding my senses. i can almost see it, a shimmering wave crashing over me, washing away any vestiges of my own will, leaving me empty, receptive, a blank slate upon which You write Your desires. Let Your will be done through me. Use me, Bella, my Goddess, my Queen. i am yours to command.
