Angel Whore: Renaissance

Pain, inevitable in my rope. Suffering, however, illusion. Warped. Bent. Flesh colored in mismatched hues. You imagine yourself in her place. You ache long after you’ve looked away. Observing leaves you hungry and drenched. You boldly ask for a tiny taste. For curiosity’s sake, of course. I’ve dreamed of binding your soft Ankara Rus Escort breasts tight. I harden, at what new sounds you’d moan. Your ankles crossed, shaking legs spread wide. I’ve set the course for your virgin flight. You’re safe in my twisted, loving Yenimahalle Escort grip. My knots won’t slip, they are tried and true. Shake, sway, scream my name in ancient tongues. Dance for me your untamed, midair dance. The first sting of leather on your flesh. Nectar oozes from your sacred slit. Flow, darken the color of my rope. As it taints the pigment of your skin. Savor my rope’s bite upon your cunt. Christen my rope with your liquid sin. Allow it to lick every wound clean. Cum, when it bites deep, on my command. When you’ve returned from rapture’s fringe. Breathe. Fold and rest your new found wings. I’ll free your breasts, limbs, and whirling mind. And soothe your cunt from its lustful sting. Do not weep for what you’ve left behind. Gently, I’ll lay you upon the floor. Spread vast and wide, and invite me in. And I’ll deflower my Angel Whore.