Hunger gets a bad reputation.
Everyone’s always trying to satisfy it, to fill it, to escape it. But I’ve learned that hunger is one of the most powerful things a person can hold.
When you starve something, you don’t destroy it.
You sharpen it.
Every ache becomes awareness.
Every denied touch becomes a promise.
Every moment of waiting becomes an act of worship.
I see it in the way you tremble when I say no.
That small sound in your throat, that shiver that betrays the fight between your body and your will.
That’s the moment I love most.
Because restraint reveals truth. It exposes where your devotion ends and your discipline begins.
When I tell you not to move, I’m not being cruel. I’m reminding you that stillness is strength.
When I tell you not to touch, I’m teaching you that desire isn’t in the doing, it’s in the wanting.
Every “no” is an invitation to listen harder.
Every delay is a test of whether you came for friction or for faith.
And the ones who stay? The ones who kneel in the ache and breathe through the burn?
They’re the ones who learn that denial isn’t deprivation, it’s direction.
Because what you starve doesn’t die. It evolves. It learns to survive on smaller doses of permission. It becomes patient. Focused. Ferocious.
That’s the secret of denial.
It’s not about taking away pleasure, it’s about refining it.
Think of it like a muscle. If you feed it too often, it softens. But when you let it strain, it grows lean and precise.
I want your desire to be like that.
Not flailing. Not greedy.
Disciplined. Devotional. Deliciously desperate.
So next time I make you wait, don’t beg for release.
Thank me for making you stronger.
What you starve, you strengthen.
And what you strengthen, eventually serves you better than you ever imagined.
You wanted control?
Now you know where it begins.
