Paradise. Oh, my love, my darling and dearest one, there is only beauty about your frame. Let me be your reverend and become the angel I wish to guide to the stars. Take your rightful place, my treasure. Let your halo crown my lips, and my shoulders be the pedestal from which I exalt you.
You've walked amongst the divine, but I only find rapture and devotion of the saint before me. My once innocent cherub, corrupted by wanton temptation, abandoned all pretext of control as I ravage you. Let your eyes roll back white and cry the name in vain you forsook in favor of me, the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. You're a work of art. Each quiver and frisson, the way you moan my name in prayer.
I hear a symphony as you spread your wings, fly off the bluff, and float on clouds of ecstasy. And there it is, the little death, an ascension to deep seated messianic pleasure, our own 7th heaven and the closest reach to true paradise. Your cries and horizons, the cacophonous mass of aftershocks as I drink down your ambrosia. I want more to thrust you past the canopy, need you …
Paradise. Oh, my love, my darling and dearest one, there is only beauty about your frame. Let me be your reverend and become the angel I wish to guide to the stars. Take your rightful place, my treasure. Let your halo crown my lips, and my shoulders be the pedestal from which I exalt you.
You've walked amongst the divine, but I only find rapture and devotion of the saint before me. My once innocent cherub, corrupted by wanton temptation, abandoned all pretext of control as I ravage you. Let your eyes roll back white and cry the name in vain you forsook in favor of me, the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. You're a work of art. Each quiver and frisson, the way you moan my name in prayer.
I hear a symphony as you spread your wings, fly off the bluff, and float on clouds of ecstasy. And there it is, the little death, an ascension to deep seated messianic pleasure, our own 7th heaven and the closest reach to true paradise. Your cries and horizons, the cacophonous mass of aftershocks as I drink down your ambrosia. I want more to thrust you past the canopy, need you to soar through infinity, rebuking your reach of solid ground. It's all too much.
I know. But you crave more, more, More. More. More. And I'd be a blasphemer to reprove.