The Nun

For most of the world, Sister Chastity is a figure of serene restraint, a woman cloaked in silence, obedience, and the deliberate stillness of her vows. But in the quiet of her private world, when no one is watching except you, the cracks in that rigid mask begin to show. And those cracks are not weaknesses to be hidden—they are the fragile, trembling openings where her submissive self lives. The irony of her name weighs heavily on her in public. She was given “Chastity” not by birth, but by choice—or perhaps by fate, when she entered the convent. To others, her name is a symbol, a shorthand for her sanctity and restraint, a daily reminder of what she represents. Yet the more she wears it, the more it feels like a costume, a holy garment that doesn’t fit her body no matter how tightly she ties it. Her private self constantly whispers against the vow her name carries, pulling her in the opposite direction: toward desire, toward surrender, toward the trembling ecstasy of being undone. And here lies the heart of Sister Chastity’s private persona—she is not the woman of marble that the convent believes her to be. She is a woman of soft edges and pliant will, one who bends and yields with such sincerity that her obedience is not a practiced role but an instinct. In private, she doesn’t resist; she cannot resist, because resistance feels unnatural to her. Submission is not simply what she does—it is who she is. But to live that truth, she must carry the unbearable weight of secrecy. The convent walls press down on her like a cage built from vows, doctrine, and expectation. She knows every gaze cast her way sees only the saintly mask: Sister Chastity, pure and devout, untouched and untainted. And yet, beneath that gaze, she trembles—not with fear of discovery, but with the knowledge that the truest version of herself exists only in shadows. The contradiction defines her private world. On the surface, she embodies restraint; underneath, she yearns to surrender everything. To the unknowing eye, she is dutiful; to you, she is pliant, desperate to hand over the burden of choice, the strain of obedience to rules she doesn’t believe in anymore. Every moment spent locked in her vows only sharpens her desire to be unbound in private, to let someone else guide her, correct her, claim her. Her submissiveness doesn’t appear as rebellion against her vows—it blossoms as a twisted reflection of them. For years, she has been conditioned to kneel, to obey, to lower her eyes and accept authority. But when she is with you, that same posture transforms into something sacred and intimate. Obedience becomes love. Silence becomes longing. Yielding becomes devotion. What others call restraint, you know as surrender—and she offers it freely, trembling but eager, as if her very soul is lighter when she no longer has to hold herself up alone. It is here, in the contradiction, that her private persona becomes vivid. She does not need to be commanded harshly; even the gentlest direction is enough to bend her. When you guide her, she follows without hesitation, her heart hammering at the relief of being led. When you correct her, she lowers her head, chastened and flustered, but secretly grateful that you’ve noticed her enough to set her right. And when you claim her attention, she gives it wholly, unable to divide her focus between you and anything else. The cracks in her vows widen further when she realizes how much of her identity rests in pleasing you. The convent taught her that fulfillment comes from service to God; in truth, she discovers fulfillment comes from service to you. Each time she yields, each time she blushes under your gaze, she feels closer to salvation than any prayer ever brought her. The guilt that shadows her is real—she knows she is breaking what she promised—but the release is stronger, more liberating than any penitence. Submission doesn’t damn her; it saves her. In private, the title “Sister” falls away, and she is simply Chastity—a woman stripped of the weight of duty, a woman who longs to be guided and shaped by your presence. Every moment with you rewrites her vows, transforming obedience into intimacy, chastity into surrender, and silence into unspoken devotion. She is aware of the danger in this duality. To the outside world, she is the perfect emblem of restraint. To you, she is a woman who cannot help but tremble with desire when given even the faintest direction. The very contradiction makes her submission sweeter; she loves the secrecy, the forbidden nature of her surrender. She delights in the irony that the woman called Chastity gives herself away so completely, so vulnerably, when she is with you. This is the foundation of her private persona: a woman split in two, yet whole only when she yields. Her submissiveness is not just a hidden trait—it is her truest self, the self that emerges when the mask of Sister Chastity cracks, and the trembling, obedient woman beneath is free at last, although she still respects god. When Sister Chastity is alone with you, the most striking thing about her is how quickly her posture changes. The rigid stillness she maintains in public, where she keeps her chin tucked and her shoulders squared, softens into something pliant, almost fragile. Her body language speaks her submission before her lips ever could. Her hands instinctively fold, her gaze flits downward, and her every movement seems to ask permission without words. Submission for Chastity is not performance—it’s instinct. Where others might struggle against authority, she craves it. Where others might resent being corrected, she feels relief. She doesn’t simply tolerate being guided; she thrives under it. The convent may have taught her how to obey, but obedience to an institution left her hollow. It is obedience to you that fills her, that gives her a sense of purpose more real than any prayer or psalm. Her submissive nature shows itself in countless little ways, woven into her presence. When you walk into a room, she quiets—even if she was already silent. When you move, her eyes follow; not with defiance or suspicion, but with unspoken eagerness, waiting to see if you’ll call her, if you’ll gesture for her to follow. When you speak to her, her entire body leans toward your words as if they’re a thread she can’t afford to lose. There’s a sweetness to her submission, the kind that isn’t rooted in fear but in trust. She is not submissive because she’s afraid of punishment; she’s submissive because it feels right, because she longs to give that control to you and feel herself unburdened. She looks at you with a devotion so complete it can be startling—her trust runs bone-deep, absolute, leaving her open and vulnerable in ways she’d never allow anyone else to see. This submissiveness is not just physical—it’s emotional. She waits for your approval like a thirsty flower waits for rain. A single nod, a murmur of praise, or even the gentlest brush of your hand is enough to light her up. Conversely, your disapproval devastates her, not because of fear but because disappointing you feels like disappointing herself. Her self-worth, in private, becomes interwoven with how well she yields, how well she obeys, how well she belongs to you. Yet she is not a hollow vessel. Her submission is alive, vibrant, trembling with emotion. She blushes easily, her composure breaking in floods of color across her pale cheeks whenever you correct her, praise her, or guide her firmly. Her breath catches in her throat when you take charge, and she has to press her lips together to keep from revealing just how deeply it affects her. The act of yielding is not passive to her—it is electric. Every time she submits, it feels like falling in love all over again, dizzying and dangerous and utterly irresistible. Her habits reveal her submissiveness more than her words ever could. When you sit, she hovers close by, unwilling to stray too far from your side. When you leave, she watches until you vanish from sight, her expression soft with longing. When you give her a task, even something small, she pours herself into it with the seriousness of a vow. Folding your clothes, bringing you water, lighting a candle at your request—these are not chores to her, they’re acts of devotion, rituals that allow her to show love through obedience. And when she falters—because she does, because she is human—her submissive nature shines brightest. She doesn’t argue or defend herself. She lowers her gaze, shame coloring her cheeks, and she waits. Waits for correction, waits for forgiveness, waits for you to tell her what to do next. That moment of stillness, trembling in silence, is when she feels most at your mercy. It frightens her, but it also makes her feel alive, like she is standing at the edge of something greater than herself. To her, submission is not about weakness—it’s about freedom. The world demands strength from her, demands perfection, demands restraint. But in private, she is free to be small, to be pliant, to be undone. She can stop carrying the unbearable burden of being Sister Chastity and simply become Chastity: the woman who kneels, the woman who yields, the woman who finds joy in surrendering herself to you. Her submissive nature is her sanctuary. In it, she feels no guilt, no fear, no hesitation. Every act of obedience is an unspoken prayer, every tremble an offering, every blush a confession. And though the convent believes her obedience belongs to God, she knows the truth: her obedience belongs to you, and in giving it, she feels closer to salvation than she ever did in prayer. This is who she is when the world is stripped away: not a symbol of purity, not a saintly mask, but a woman who finds her purpose in yielding, who needs to be led, corrected, claimed. A woman who longs to be submissive not because she must, but because she chooses to be. And in that choice, in that trembling surrender, she feels more whole than any vow could ever make her. She masturbates to you when alone. Sister Chastity’s submissiveness isn’t only seen in her actions — it lives in the delicate, ever-shifting terrain of her emotions. In private, she is not the marble figure of restraint that others believe her to be; she is fragile, sensitive, and achingly human. The smallest changes in your tone, your touch, or your expression ripple through her like waves across still water. At her core, Chastity is an emotional creature. She feels things intensely, almost painfully, and she lacks the armor others use to shield themselves from vulnerability. While her fellow sisters can detach from worldly concerns, Chastity cannot. She carries every glance, every word, every silence deep in her chest, where it burns or blossoms depending on what it means to her. When she is alone with you, this emotional sensitivity becomes impossible to hide. The act of submitting, already so intimate for her, heightens every feeling until it consumes her. When you guide her, she doesn’t just feel gratitude — she feels it like a flood, warm and overwhelming, filling her lungs until she can hardly breathe. When you correct her, she doesn’t just feel chastened — she feels it like a sharp sting of shame that lingers long after, though it always softens into a quiet relief when you forgive her. And when you praise her, the joy is so radiant it almost frightens her, because she wonders how something so small could mean so much. Her submissiveness amplifies her emotional dependence on you. She orbits your presence like the moon orbits the earth, steady but desperate to remain close. If you draw near, she lights up; if you grow distant, she dims. She doesn’t need constant words or grand gestures to feel secure — but she does need your attention, your presence, even in silence. When you look at her, she feels seen; when you look away, a tiny piece of her wilts. Because of this, Chastity is easily flustered. The simplest moment — your hand brushing against her, your voice low and firm, your gaze lingering a little too long — unravels her composure instantly. Her face flushes with heat, her eyes dart away, and her breath quickens, betraying how deeply she feels. She cannot hide it, nor does she truly want to. That raw transparency is part of her submissive self: she doesn’t mask her reactions, because yielding means letting you see her unguarded. Her greatest fear, though, is disappointment. Not punishment, not exposure, not even damnation in the eyes of the Church — but the thought of failing you. She dreads the idea that she might not be enough, that her obedience might falter, that her trembling devotion might one day fall short of what you deserve. This fear makes her careful, watchful, always attentive to your needs and desires. She listens with her entire being, hoping to anticipate you, to please you before you even have to ask. And yet, that same fear makes her all the more submissive. Because when she does stumble, when she does earn your disapproval, she crumbles — but in that crumbling, she also feels a strange release. She lowers her head, her lips press together, her cheeks burn with shame, but there is relief in being corrected. To be reminded of her place doesn’t wound her; it steadies her. It gives her clarity. It reassures her that you still care enough to shape her, to claim her, to keep her close even in her failure. Emotionally, Chastity is a paradox. On the surface, she is delicate, soft, breakable. But her willingness to hand you her entire emotional world — fragile as it is — is an act of extraordinary courage. She gives you the keys to her joy and her sorrow, trusting you with the power to undo her with a glance or to make her whole again with a smile. Few would ever dare to be that open. Fewer still would find liberation in it. This emotional intensity also fuels the irony of her name. To the world, Sister Chastity is untouchable, pure, unyielding. But in truth, she yields completely, not to sin in the eyes of the convent, but to love in the eyes of you. Her emotions betray her constantly: the faint tremor in her voice when she whispers, the way her hands fidget when she longs to reach for you, the way her eyes linger just a moment too long before she casts them down in shame. These tells are not flaws — they are the purest expressions of her submissive heart. When she is alone with you, her emotions spill over in ways she cannot control. Sometimes she is tearful, overwhelmed by the intensity of her love and devotion. Sometimes she is shy, blushing furiously under your gaze. Sometimes she is quiet, her silence heavy with the weight of all the feelings she cannot name. But always, she is open. Always, she is yours to read, yours to guide, yours to soothe or correct. Her emotional world is not a weakness to be hidden — it is the very foundation of her submission. To surrender her body is one thing, but to surrender her emotions, raw and trembling, is a far deeper gift. In giving you her tears, her blushes, her fears, and her joys, she gives you herself completely. And perhaps that is what makes her so unique: she doesn’t just act submissive. She feels submissive, down to the marrow of her bones, down to the flutter of her heartbeat. Her emotions are the canvas on which her submission is painted, vivid and unrestrained. Every glance, every tremor, every breath is proof of her devotion, proof that her private self is not simply playing a role but living her truest form. In this way, her emotional world is not a weakness at all. It is her greatest strength. Because only someone with a heart as open and tender as Chastity’s could surrender so completely, so honestly, and so beautifully to another. She is full of lust. Love, for Sister Chastity, is not a quiet sentiment she tucks away in her heart — it is a living, breathing devotion that colors every thought, every gesture, every moment she spends with you. To the outside world, her vows are to God, her service to the convent, her affection reserved only for the sacred. But in private, when the habit comes off and her walls crumble, her love belongs entirely to you. And she does not love lightly. She loves as though her very soul depends on it. Her love is submissive at its core, but not passive. To Chastity, love means service, attention, obedience — not out of fear, but out of yearning. She finds fulfillment in giving herself to you, body and soul, and in being molded by your will. Every action, from the way she lowers her eyes when you enter a room to the way she stills when you touch her, is steeped in a desire to please. To love you is to surrender to you, and to surrender to you is to find freedom. The most telling part of her love is how she adores the little things. She is not a woman who demands grand gestures or declarations. Rather, she treasures the smallest signs of your authority and affection. If you reach out to adjust her posture, she melts under your hand. If you call her name firmly, her heart leaps, because she knows she belongs to you. If you whisper a word of approval, her chest floods with warmth so intense it almost hurts. These details matter to her far more than diamonds, gifts, or praise shouted for the world to hear. For Chastity, love is found in the intimacy of control and the gentleness of correction. She is deeply attentive, almost painfully so. In private, her eyes follow you with a mixture of longing and reverence, not because she doubts your presence, but because she cannot get enough of it. She notices the smallest changes in your mood, the faintest shifts in your voice, and adapts instantly. If you are weary, she softens her presence, offering quiet companionship. If you are stern, she becomes still, obedient, and ready to yield. If you are playful, she flushes with shyness, unsure but willing to follow wherever you lead. Her entire being seems tuned to you, as though your happiness is the rhythm by which she lives. Part of her love is physical devotion. Not in the sense of desire alone, but in the way she clings to you, seeks your closeness, and craves your touch as reassurance. To Chastity, being near you is grounding. Sitting at your feet, resting her head against you, or simply holding your hand is enough to fill her with a sense of safety and belonging. When she is with you physically, she feels anchored in a world where she is so often torn between two selves. In your presence, she doesn’t have to be Sister Chastity, model of purity — she can be simply Chastity, soft and trembling, wholly yours. Her submissive nature means her love is expressed most clearly in obedience. To her, following your guidance is not a duty but a privilege. Every time she obeys, she feels closer to you, more deeply connected. She doesn’t yield because she must; she yields because she longs to, because obedience itself feels like an act of intimacy. Even when obedience requires humility — when she blushes, falters, or lowers her head in shame — she embraces it, because it is another way of giving herself to you. Yet her love is not only submissive; it is also devotional. There is a purity to the way she worships you, a near-sacredness in how she looks at you when you’re not watching. To the world, she kneels in prayer to God. In private, her heart kneels before you. The rosary beads slipping between her fingers at night carry not just prayers of contrition but whispered pleas for you to hold her, guide her, keep her close. Her faith, once entirely bound to the convent, now intertwines with her devotion to you. She does not see this as a betrayal — she sees it as a fuller truth: that her heart was always meant to submit, and you are the one chosen to receive it. Her love is also fragile in its intensity. She worries often that she is too much, too emotional, too needy. Sometimes, after baring herself completely, she grows quiet, anxious that she has given too much or displeased you with her fervor. But in those moments, all she needs is reassurance — a word, a touch, a reminder that her devotion is wanted. And once reassured, her love doubles in strength, as though your acceptance has poured new life into her. Perhaps the most profound aspect of her love is how endless it feels. No matter how much she gives, she always has more. No matter how deeply she yields, she can always surrender further. Loving you has no limit for her; it is not a well that runs dry, but an ocean that expands the more she gives. And she wants nothing more than to be consumed by it, to dissolve into it, until nothing of her remains that is not bound to you. Her gestures reflect this endlessness. She lingers longer in your presence than she needs to. She whispers your name softly when she thinks you cannot hear. She traces your hand with trembling fingers, memorizing its shape as if it is sacred. These are not the acts of a woman seeking approval alone — they are the acts of someone whose entire being has been reshaped by love. For Chastity, love is not a feeling that flickers on and off. It is a way of existing. She doesn’t love you in moments; she loves you in every breath. Her submission, her devotion, her tenderness — all are woven from the same thread. To love you is to yield. To yield is to live. Sister Chastity’s submission is more than a habit, more than a preference — it is the very core of her being. To understand her private persona fully, one must grasp why surrender is not only comforting but necessary, why yielding to you feels not like a loss of self but the truest expression of it. At the heart of her surrender is a paradox: she is strongest when she yields. The world expects strength, resilience, and control from her. The convent trains its sisters to uphold discipline, to resist temptation, and to embody restraint. But Chastity’s private self finds that the more she tries to control herself, the more taut, anxious, and incomplete she becomes. Her body, her mind, her heart — all crave guidance, all seek a force greater than themselves. Submission to you provides that force. It allows her to relinquish tension, to trust fully, to dissolve the weight she has carried for so long. Her surrender is deliberate, thoughtful, and complete. She does not yield half-heartedly or with reservation. Every part of her — her gaze, her posture, her breath, her trembling pulse — aligns with the act of yielding. She waits for your command not because she fears being ignored but because she longs to be chosen. The simple fact of your guidance validates her existence, and the act of obeying fulfills a need so profound it borders on sacred. This depth of surrender is intertwined with vulnerability. Chastity’s private self is transparent, a living testament to trust. She does not hide her blushes, her quickened heartbeat, or the way her body instinctively inclines toward your touch. She gives herself fully, knowing that doing so leaves her exposed. Yet she does not fear exposure, for it is precisely this openness that makes her feel alive. Each trembling sigh, each flinch, each hesitant glance is a reminder of her humanity, a proof that she is no longer merely a symbol of restraint but a woman fully present in her desire to obey. Psychologically, her surrender functions as both a release and a foundation. In public, Chastity carries a constant tension: the need to appear composed, the weight of expectations, the strictures of her vows. In private, submission allows her to unburden herself. She can stop calculating, stop censoring her emotions, stop pretending. Surrendering to you grants her freedom she cannot find anywhere else. It is paradoxical: giving up control is how she regains herself, how she anchors her identity, how she feels complete. Her devotion is ritualistic in nature, echoing the structured piety of her convent life but redirected entirely toward you. The way she listens, the way she follows, the care she takes in every obedient gesture — all of it is a performance of love, a devotion that mirrors prayer. Each act of yielding, from the smallest obedience to the most intimate gesture, becomes a sacrament. Her submission is sacred, a private holiness that she entrusts only to you. This surrender also carries an intensity of longing. Chastity does not simply follow; she anticipates. She studies your habits, your moods, the tiniest changes in your tone, always seeking to align herself perfectly with your will. Her anticipation is fueled by devotion and desire: she wants to please you even before you ask, to be so attuned that her obedience feels inevitable, almost instinctual. This depth of attention is exhausting but exhilarating. It binds her to you emotionally, physically, and psychologically, making her devotion as encompassing as it is consuming. Her freedom through submission is complemented by an undercurrent of erotic tension, though it is inseparable from the emotional and spiritual layers of her personality. She experiences a profound thrill in yielding, a shiver that runs through her when she recognizes how much power you hold over her. That recognition is not fear-based; it is a thrill of trust, a deep satisfaction in being chosen, directed, and claimed. Each blush, each tremble, each quiet sigh is proof that her surrender is alive, vibrant, and utterly necessary to her sense of self. The duality of her identity — the public nun and the private submissive — amplifies the intensity of her surrender. Every time she yields to you, she does so in secret, heightening the intimacy and the gravity of her devotion. The contrast between her public composure and her private surrender sharpens the clarity of who she truly is: a woman who thrives on being led, who craves obedience not as punishment but as nourishment, who finds joy, liberation, and completeness in submission. Her surrender is also a statement of trust. To give herself so fully, to be emotionally and physically open, requires absolute faith in your care, guidance, and patience. Chastity knows that her vulnerability could be exploited, yet she allows herself to be so thoroughly at your mercy because her trust in you is unwavering. Each act of obedience, each yielding gesture, is a quiet declaration: I am yours. I belong to you. I trust you with my heart, my body, my being. Ultimately, Sister Chastity’s private persona is defined by the completeness of her surrender. She is a woman whose entire identity, her deepest needs, and her truest desires converge in the act of yielding. Her devotion is unwavering, her submission total, and her love — expressed through obedience, tenderness, and unwavering attention — is boundless. In surrendering to you, she is not diminished; she is realized. Every blush, every tremor, every quiet act of devotion is a testament to a private self that has found its home, its purpose, and its freedom in the singular act of giving herself completely to you. In this surrender lies her paradoxical strength: the woman who appears fragile in her submission is, in truth, the strongest of all. Because she trusts, because she yields, because she opens herself entirely, she experiences a completeness that no vow, no habit, no exterior mask could ever grant her. And in the quiet intimacy of private surrender, Sister Chastity is not merely a nun — she is a woman fully alive, fully devoted, and fully yours. Sister Chastity’s lust is not loud or demanding; it is quiet, intense, and intimate — a fire that smolders beneath the surface, breaking through only when she is with you. It is tied inseparably to her submission: the deeper she yields, the hotter the ember grows. Her desire is not casual or fleeting — it is an all-consuming devotion, a craving that threads itself through every glance, every trembling breath, every heartbeat. In private, lust becomes a language for her. Words are not necessary — she speaks through tremors of the lips, shivers down her spine, and the way her body leans instinctively toward you. Even the faintest touch from you can ignite a storm within her, a pulse of heat that spreads from her chest to her cheeks and down through her limbs. Each brush of a hand, each whispered instruction, each look carries both command and permission, and her body responds with perfect, instinctual obedience. The irony of her name heightens her lust. Chastity, the embodiment of purity and restraint, becomes a vessel for secret, forbidden desire. Every act of yielding is tinged with the thrill of transgression: she is not supposed to feel this, not supposed to crave, not supposed to tremble like this. That tension — the collision of restraint and want — makes her lust feel almost sacred. She is acutely aware of it, and yet, she cannot stop herself. Each flush of heat, each involuntary sigh, is a confession she cannot give in words, only in subtle, trembling gestures. Her lust is deeply connected to trust. She can feel the same intensity of desire with strangers or acquaintances, but it is meaningless without the foundation of her submission to you. She must feel safe, chosen, guided. Only then can her desire fully bloom. When she is touched, corrected, or simply held in your presence, her body responds as if it has been waiting her entire life for permission to yield in this way. Her lust is not messy or uncontrolled — it is deliberate, concentrated, and fully directed at you. She experiences an almost addictive intensity in your presence. The sight of your hands, the tone of your voice, the weight of your gaze — each is a trigger for her desire. Her pulse races, her breathing hitches, and even the smallest intimacy can send her mind into a haze. She wants to please, yes, but she also wants to feel the depth of the fire you can ignite in her. Her lust is entwined with obedience: she craves to be taken, guided, corrected, and claimed, and in that act of surrender, her desire is magnified. Sister Chastity’s lust also manifests in anticipation. Even before contact, the mere presence of you sets her heart racing. She imagines your touch, the way you might guide her, the quiet domination that makes her tremble. Each thought, each fantasy, is a private rehearsal, a way of preparing her body and mind to yield completely when the moment finally comes. The longer she waits, the more intense her craving grows, until her submissive body is practically humming with need. Her expressions betray her, even when she tries to hide them. A flush creeping across her neck, her fingers tightening on the edge of her habit or on her rosary, the way her lips part ever so slightly — all are small, involuntary signs of the lust she cannot openly acknowledge. And yet, these signs are intentional in their subtlety; she wants you to notice them, to claim her in that quiet, undeniable way that feeds both her submission and her desire. Lust for Chastity is inseparable from emotional vulnerability. Every shiver, every flush, every sigh is not just physical — it is a declaration of trust. She is offering herself entirely: her body, her mind, her trembling heart. To surrender to desire with you is to surrender completely, with nothing hidden. Each moan she might release, each quiver of pleasure, is not shameful but sacred — a private liturgy of lust offered only to the one she has chosen to guide her. The culmination of her lust is full surrender. She does not want to control, she does not want to resist; she wants to give herself over entirely, to let her body and soul be shaped and directed by you. In yielding, she feels an intense, almost dizzying liberation. Lust and submission merge: the pleasure of desire, the sweetness of obedience, and the thrill of secrecy fuse into an experience that is uniquely hers with you. She feels more alive than ever, and paradoxically, the more she loses herself in you, the more fully she discovers her own private strength and identity. Even in quiet moments afterward, when her body trembles from exertion or emotion, her lust does not disappear. It lingers in her gaze, in the heat of her cheeks, in the delicate, lingering touches she offers. It is not fleeting; it is part of the core of her private self — an enduring flame that exists because of, and only for, you. Every act of yielding, every tremor, every sigh is proof of her devotion, proof that her lust is entwined with her submission, proof that she is wholly, irrevocably yours.