WhispersandWants
Ethical Voyeur
- Joined
- Aug 11, 2025
- Posts
- 1
I seek a muse, feral and fearless, silk-laced, and soul-deep.
A muse who doesn't just move through the world,
but makes it tremble with her presence.
Who leaves poetry in the air after she's gone.
Who births stories from her breath, from the arch of her back, to the secrets she dares to speak.
You need to be open. Curious. Willing to stretch into your own want.
You must crave sensation like sunlight on bare skin.
Can you describe the ache that builds before fingers even meet flesh?
Can you write of the taste of anticipation on your tongue?
I want a muse who understands that
a well-placed phrase can leave the skin flushed
and the breath uneven.
Words can tease. Words can torment. Words can undress.
If you're the kind of woman who could stand naked while I watch,
unashamed and electric in your vulnerability,
or the kind who could let others touch her while my eyes trace every reaction then you already understand the kind of power I'm drawn to.
You must be just as willing to lie naked and still
to feel only the lightest, most reverent touch across your skin
as you are to fall into the fury of a darker storm:
where pain becomes pleasure, where control dissolves into heat,
where boundaries are not just tested but explored with intention and care.
Your body becomes both temple and terrain, and you must want to discover every path.
You will be seen.
Not just your body but your hunger, your history, your heat.
I will write you. Again and again.
Your curves, your chaos, your surrender.
You will respond because you know this is not performance.
It is alchemy.
You must be open to pleasure with all genders, all bodies, all desires.
Because ecstasy knows no boundaries.
You must be able to define your limits hard, soft,
be willing to push the soft and hold true to the hard.
You must dare to share your fantasies, your past explorations, and your unanswered cravings.
Not because you must but because you want to.
Because it thrills you to be heard, understood, devoured.
Looks? Irrelevant.
Age? Unimportant. (Although over 18 is a must.)
What matters is fire, the kind that flickers in your eyes when you're thinking something wicked.
The kind that ignites when words wrap around your spine and you feel yourself begin to melt.
I do not want to own you.
You are not a possession.
To try and claim you as mine alone would be a sin against your wild, wandering nature.
But I do expect you to be available to me
when the need to write claws at my skin,
when the story whispers your name,
when silence begs to be broken by the sound of your breath.
This is for the woman who can stand exposed, under my gaze and say, "Now, write me."
Who can share herself with others while I watch because the true tether is between us.
Who knows that intellect is the ultimate aphrodisiac,
and conversation can leave us both trembling.
I'm not looking for a fantasy.
I'm looking for communion.
Co-creation. A dance of shadows and silk and words that bruise sweetly.
If this calls to you, if it thrums in your chest
then come.
Let's make art of your appetite.
Let's set the page on fire.
And if you do reach out, your first message must be more than "I'm intrigued."
Show me.
Let your words breathe.
Let them ache.
Let me feel you before I even know your name.
A muse who doesn't just move through the world,
but makes it tremble with her presence.
Who leaves poetry in the air after she's gone.
Who births stories from her breath, from the arch of her back, to the secrets she dares to speak.
You need to be open. Curious. Willing to stretch into your own want.
You must crave sensation like sunlight on bare skin.
Can you describe the ache that builds before fingers even meet flesh?
Can you write of the taste of anticipation on your tongue?
I want a muse who understands that
a well-placed phrase can leave the skin flushed
and the breath uneven.
Words can tease. Words can torment. Words can undress.
If you're the kind of woman who could stand naked while I watch,
unashamed and electric in your vulnerability,
or the kind who could let others touch her while my eyes trace every reaction then you already understand the kind of power I'm drawn to.
You must be just as willing to lie naked and still
to feel only the lightest, most reverent touch across your skin
as you are to fall into the fury of a darker storm:
where pain becomes pleasure, where control dissolves into heat,
where boundaries are not just tested but explored with intention and care.
Your body becomes both temple and terrain, and you must want to discover every path.
You will be seen.
Not just your body but your hunger, your history, your heat.
I will write you. Again and again.
Your curves, your chaos, your surrender.
You will respond because you know this is not performance.
It is alchemy.
You must be open to pleasure with all genders, all bodies, all desires.
Because ecstasy knows no boundaries.
You must be able to define your limits hard, soft,
be willing to push the soft and hold true to the hard.
You must dare to share your fantasies, your past explorations, and your unanswered cravings.
Not because you must but because you want to.
Because it thrills you to be heard, understood, devoured.
Looks? Irrelevant.
Age? Unimportant. (Although over 18 is a must.)
What matters is fire, the kind that flickers in your eyes when you're thinking something wicked.
The kind that ignites when words wrap around your spine and you feel yourself begin to melt.
I do not want to own you.
You are not a possession.
To try and claim you as mine alone would be a sin against your wild, wandering nature.
But I do expect you to be available to me
when the need to write claws at my skin,
when the story whispers your name,
when silence begs to be broken by the sound of your breath.
This is for the woman who can stand exposed, under my gaze and say, "Now, write me."
Who can share herself with others while I watch because the true tether is between us.
Who knows that intellect is the ultimate aphrodisiac,
and conversation can leave us both trembling.
I'm not looking for a fantasy.
I'm looking for communion.
Co-creation. A dance of shadows and silk and words that bruise sweetly.
If this calls to you, if it thrums in your chest
then come.
Let's make art of your appetite.
Let's set the page on fire.
And if you do reach out, your first message must be more than "I'm intrigued."
Show me.
Let your words breathe.
Let them ache.
Let me feel you before I even know your name.
