Afternoon Light, Skin Warm, Soul Full

He came to me like a man who knew how to worship—not with empty flattery or frantic hands, but with presence. With patience. Like he understood the divine requires devotion. The room was golden with afternoon light, and I was already waiting, stretched out in silk and silence, an altar built of warm skin and steady breath.

He didn’t rush. His hands moved like a sermon—rubbing, squeezing, mapping my body with a kind of reverent curiosity. When he gripped my hips, when he pulled my hair, it wasn’t violence—it was grounding. A sacred claiming. He wasn’t just touching me. He was listening to me. Praying with me.

And when he filled me—God. It wasn’t just physical. It was a flood. A meeting. Something opened in me, something deep and wordless. He filled spaces I didn’t know were hollow. Answered questions I hadn’t dared ask. I felt craved. Consumed. Worshipped.

I held power the whole time, even in surrender. I let him in because I wanted to. Because I chose to. He has no idea how rare that is. How lucky he was to kneel at the altar today.

Now, hours later, I’m still glowing. My body remembers. My spirit purrs.

And I’ll let him wonder what exactly I gave him… and what I didn’t.