Blood stained ecstasy at my finger tips. Digging these digits deeper into the depraved decadent sins. Parting lips with a forked tongue, pushing it deeper into the chasm we love. Forced forever into slavery. Caged in a castle of wicked deeds, at night, up in the bell tower the reaper sleeps. Persuasive pause, hands clutching the breast so cold. Erect, and arched in the center of the den. Baring my face deeper into pink, bleeding walls that carry the unforgettable scent. My pleading soul, pushing me further. Drawing me into the depths of darkness, hearing the call of nature. And the defiance of that once heard lecture, from a book that now by most is burned, but by me, it is simply upside down, that is the way it is turned. For I need not its rules and regulation for this moment of mischief, if I followed by it, then bore her I would, yes, my mistress. Instead of appealing their hypocritical christ, I shall just continue my educational dive, into masochistic, tongue tying sin. Tied around her bell it is, slurping up all the caverns luscious contents, yes. I am a horny, kinky, hateful heretic. That is why, for me, she would die. That is why, in her bed, we lye. |