Nocturne in Wet Silk

I know this body like a cathedral knows its own echo.

The room breathed low amber light across my skin, every curve a stained-glass pane catching fire. I lay back, thighs falling open like silk curtains in a storm, and let my palms become pilgrims.

First, the slow pilgrimage: fingertips tracing the swollen altar of my clit, slick with sacred honey, pulsing like a heart that forgot how to be calm. I circled, reverent, then profane, pressing harder until the hymn rose in my throat, wet, wordless.

I offered two fingers inside, curled them to the secret nave where pleasure is carved deepest. My walls fluttered, kissed them, begged. My free hand climbed the slope of my breast, pinched the nipple until pain and worship blurred into one bright note.

Then the relic: cool glass cock, thick as sin, humming alive. I fed it to my cunt in one deliberate thrust, felt myself split open like dawn. I fucked myself in long, liquid strokes, hips rolling like waves breaking on an altar no one else will ever touch.

The crescendo came sudden and merciless, an avalanche of light behind my eyes. I came in radiant pulses, cunt gripping, gushing, anointing the sheets in silver arcs while my spine arched into a perfect, trembling bow.

Now I lie here ruined and reborn, thighs painted with my own communion, tasting salt and divinity on my lips.

This body is my masterpiece, and tonight I signed it with ecstasy.