For Flora - The Ultimate Sacrifice

The prompt : Longing for fingertips that read my body like a forgotten prayer.

Beneath Lionsden, vile city where sins flow like blood through our veins,

I walk.

Where the stones bleed forgetfulness.

The catacombs breathe around me, heavy with a thousands of wasted words.

The black fabric of my robe scrapes across the frozen ground. 

My steps echo like confessions I never deserved to let out. 

Every desire I smothered crawls back to the surface. 

And your name, above all, tears me apart in silence.

Flora.

Ever since we were forbidden to one another, you have lived in my fractured thoughts. 

Like a ghost beneath my skin. 

A thirst I have never been able to absolve. 

You fled. 

And So did I. Y

ou chose you’re your way.

I suffered mine. 

We pretended. 

Feigned forgetfulness and witnessed nothing but scarred failure. 

I spent my years isolated, scraping my soul against cold walls. 

Begging the deaf gods for oblivion. 

Praying they’d turn me into stone.

While I buried myself in this agony, 

You danced from one light to another. 

Dressed in robes too vivid

Sampling lips unknown, 

Whispering hollow promises.

And yet.

With every night drowning between borrowed bodies, 

with every first birdsong under the rising sun, 

it was still me you sought, pressed against the lukewarm body of another. 

All of them so dull, so boring to you.

Even when you fled, 

even when you pretended, 

you always knew where to find me.

I am your magnetic north. 

The only truth your blood remembers. 

The invisible axis around which you spin without rest, 

even when your steps lead you far from me.

And so, without a word, 

without a glance backward, 

you let yourself slip beneath the sickened skin of Lionsden.

Each step tore you a little further from the world of the living. 

Each stair you descended bound you a little more to me. 

To us.

In the forgotten catacombs, 

you come to offer me what no vow had been able to extinguish.

Your body. 

Your breath. 

Your fall.

Our final and certain fall.

How do you present yourself to me, Flora ?

Standing, proud, your dress slipping at your feet, a final act of defiance before submission

You’re already there when I enter.

At the far end of the chamber of our doom. 

Framed by crumbling stone,

veined with water and rust trickling down from Lionsden. 

The altar behind you is cracked, abandoned.

You don’t speak. 

You don’t move. 

You just watch me cross the threshold. 

Alive with silence. 

Ablaze with defiance. 

Abandoned to desire.

Your hands reach behind your back, slow, without hesitation. 

The knot unties. 

The fabric slips. 

Your dress gives way like air breaking against skin,

sliding down your body until it pools around your ankles in defeat. 

You don’t cover yourself. 

You don’t look away. 

You stand there. 

Exposed. 

Deliberate. 

And you lift your chin, daring me to see what I’ve lost. 

To take it. 

And I will. 

Oh, there is not an ounce of doubt coursing through my vein.

I will take you.

You hold the light like it belongs to you. 

Even in this place,

under tons stone,

your skin catches fire from the torch above and gives it back slow. 

The curve of your belly, the full line of your hips, the swell of your thighs. 

You were built to be held. To be tasted. 

I look at you and forget how to inhale.

It starts in my chest. 

That slow, thick pressure like my ribs are pushing outward, like there isn’t enough space in my body for what’s rising. 

Then it drops. Low. Heavy. 

Heat is gathering between my hips,

brutal and focused,

like blood obeying gravity. 

My cock is already hard. 

Not sudden. 

Not shocking. 

I’ve been walking toward this for years. 

This is not the hunger of a moment. 

This is the ache of long absence meeting certainty.

I feel it in my thighs, in the tension of my hands, in the way the air stalls behind my teeth.

You mutter it. 

A simple

yes. 

Not a cry. 

Not a plea. 

Just a whisper shaped into surrender.

I move. 

One step,

then another. 

My hand finds your throat without hesitation, not to choke, not to threaten, but to feel the pulse under your skin. 

To know you're alive. 

To be sure this is real.

Your skin is warm. 

Soft under my palm. 

My fingers curve around you, firm, claiming. And then I pull you in.

Not fast. 

Not rough.

I want your face inches from mine before I take your mouth. 

I want to feel you falter right there, just beneath your lips. 

I want you to know it’s me. 

All of me. 

Before anything else happens.

You’re trembling. 

Not out of fear. 

But restraint.

And I stay there. 

Still. 

Burning.

Because if I kiss you, you’ll belong to it. 

To me. 

To this ending we can’t escape.

I won’t take that from you. 

It's yours to give.

So I wait.

And you hold.

You waver once. 

Then twice. 

Your lips part, but don’t rise. 

Your hands stay at your sides, fists curled tight.

Then you reach. 

Just a fraction. 

Just enough to capture my lower lip between yours.

Surrender.

__________________________________________________________________________________

What energy is Flora feeding into The Robed Man now that she has crossed the line. What’s alive in her. I’m not asking what she does . I want to know how she does. Is she passionate and fast because it has been desired for so long or slow and steady to savour every second. What is the vibe ?