I know I burn in bed—
But no screened lust can still this hunger.
I crave not moans from pixels,
But a woman—
Soft, breathing,
A worshipper of my name in every sigh.
The kind whose gaze seeks mine
—Even in a crowd,
Whose skin sings only for my shadow.
She shudders when my breath
wanders down her hips,
And parts like prophecy
when my tongue tastes her silence.
She cries—
not from pain,
but the ache of being touched
by someone who reads her sins
as scripture.
She begs for more—
Not because I demand,
but because her devotion
blooms at my cruelty.
She opens—
Body, soul, and sorrow—
when I call.
She learns to crawl through
my scent in her veins,
tangled in the fabric of my clothes.
And when she surrenders,
even death will bear my name
on her final moan.
[A grand welcome to all my baby readers and mature readers. I hope you all will enjoy this lusty ride.]