Strange Zander, alone, has never failed her. No lies, no excuses – only unfailing sweetness. No hint of another, no wayward glance, only compliments and kindness. Every day he worships her.
Her thighs upon his fluttering shoulders, his face deep-buried in pink and scent, moisture of tongue and pussy commingling, consuming fire dances, electric, in her loins.
Suffused and writhing, she begs him fill her, weeps come and joy and, coming, cries aloud:
“Zander! You are a fucking angel!”
As she sleeps, fulfilled, complete, the stars that once were him filter skyward, dust-motes in reverse, from her Heaven to his own.
by R V Raiment
Copyright 2004, Richard V Raiment
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