Heavenly Showers

Some are addicted to sex, but as for me, the addiction to sex is much more. It is not limited to the intimacy of two souls meeting underneath a fleshy curtain or the ecstatic stare into the divine with every climax.

Cum is my drug.

I am not just addicted to any man’s cum, because it isn’t every day you ingest milky nectar touched by the grace of God.

I have craved his cum from the second I first felt the warm water drip down from my lower back to my ass, leaving a shimmering gloss glittered by the early fall sun through my window. I am addicted to the warm river traveling down my esophagus. Its cleansing waters, meshed with my dark waters, birth a holy ocean of pleasure.

Cum is Orphic, as it encompasses a myriad of divine experiences. I am not only addicted to the spewing of the sweet milk, but all of the sensations and moments afterward. I move slowly, keeping my eyes with his, the windows to the soul showing me the tall goblet filling before an eruption of pleasure.

Instead of making love before work, I ask him to refrain from touching himself all day, but to keep the image of me close to him all day. I send him subtleties about the honey collecting in my pink silk panties, waiting to be taken off. I imagine him shaking all day in pleasure, begging for my return to relieve him of his most beautiful agony.

I come home at five, he is uneasy, running his fingers through his soft mane. I feel his tension building as I bend over. I can feel his eyes undressing me, revealing my begging ass.

He takes my hand to lead me into his bedroom. I am powerless. I am a devoted worshiper in his temple of love.

There is no time for words. I try to speak as I undress, but he is immersed in the drizzles of rain before the early summer storm. I wear a bodysuit underneath my black slacks—a labyrinth he must walk through to bathe in my fountain with its dulcet waters. I turn around as he lies down on the bed, playfully swiveling my ass as I pull down my bodysuit. His hands stretch forward, running fingers along my waist. His hands are desperate pleads for me to gently engulf his begging cock in a warm embrace. Though I play, the role of sinner and priest reverse.

Flipping me over, I succumb to the sweetest torture of pleasure, as he plays my body. He is my devoted harp player. His fingers carefully, yet gently, caress each strand of my nerves, building my arousal to one hopeful melody. The tempo does not peak: the angels rest in their shimmering clouds, but look sweetly down at the Earth.

The demons of my day latch onto my skin, as I wait for him to cleanse me with his heavenly showers. I keep the visions of his ecstasy to myself. The quiet moments at work were pulsating with visions of his perfectly-sized cock. I walk the streets as a mad woman, waiting for the moments I can submit to the steady wave of his erotic demands. He knew how I waited, but, more importantly, was aware of how I indulged in the rose-colored anguish.

The anguish is another addiction.

Playing me with steady precision, he let me tremble in my sins for what feels like hours. As I approach climax, he slows his pace. The moments of anguish are magic in its purest form, as I reached for something eternal: a force of love and joy, stronger than death itself. Shaking with passion, a part of me wishes these moments of agony could never end, as I touch the divine closer. I do not desire to return to the material realm.

And, with this desire, he enters my womb to baptize me in his holy water.

With his thrusting, I am submerged in an endless sea. The beautiful harmony of him entering my depths and me entering his depths as I watch the hidden parts of him sparkle in his eyes. I can feel the moment of climax approaching him as his face displays an expression of pain and fear. There is a reason the French refer to orgasm as "la petite mort," which means "the little death."

I know he is about to come, when he utters, "Ooh baby, here it is" out of disheveled breaths. I gaze into his eyes and see the fear glimmering in his face. He does not know what will come out of him. I have placed a Pandora’s Box inside his body. Inside are dark spirits to be released, which will slowly die in the air of our love. Watching him approach his climax, drives me into an unmanageable frenzy. I beg of him to release himself all over my breasts as I come, which feels endless. I am baptized in his divine seas, dripping across my breasts glistening with sweat. I must see his ecstasy, play in its hot springs like a mermaid.

This is what I live for.

Against the whistling of the ceiling fan, he whispers "damn," mimicking the soft breeze in early spring to propagate the growth of the buds.