Violence is my liturgy and tenderness my temptation, for I take with storm and with stillness alike. There are nights when I descend like thunder, when I wrench screams and convulsions from your body until the border between agony and ecstasy collapses into nothing, until you are nothing but breath, bruise, and holy ruin beneath me. My hands pin you, my teeth consecrate you, my cock drives into you like a relentless sermon, each thrust a verse of annihilation, each release a baptism in violence.
But there are mornings when the gospel shifts. When revelation does not come in lightning but in slow, smoldering fire. When my hands move with predatory patience, tracing circles around your fire, dragging moisture into deliberate orbit, curling fingers into tender places with cruel precision, opening you one trembling inch at a time. When I catalogue every gasp and every fracture of your breath, mapping you with ritual exactness until I know you more fully than you know yourself. When my cock sinks into you like a blade drawn slow, not to finish you but to torment, to grind, to press into depths you can neither resist nor escape.
I want my teeth to close upon you with the hunger of a Villain who knows his prey cannot flee. I want my hands to brand you, to clutch until you writhe, until you whimper, until you unravel on the altar of my body. Every curl of my fingers, every slow thrust, every lazy sweep of my tongue is not affection—it is sacrament. It is the deliberate pacing of a god who savors his worship. I would drag you to the edge slowly, mercilessly, until your sobs confess the terror of release itself, until you tremble not only at the force of your orgasm but at the gaze of the one who sees you, wholly, utterly, without escape.
And when that trembling overtakes you—when you fracture under the weight of the climax you once begged for—then I would turn storm again. Deep, brutal, merciless. My hand closing around your throat, my hips hammering into you with relentless cadence, each thrust transfiguring your pleasure into explosions of torment, each collision claiming you anew. I would not simply take release; I would consecrate you with it.
This is the gospel of my villainy: to build you slowly into terror, to break you open in ecstasy, to devour you as the lazy predator who knows his prey cannot escape, and then to feast upon you one slow, deliberate taste at a time until you forget where you end and I begin.