Don’t just touch, trace me like a sacred script,
fingers preaching slow, where fervor and patience mix.
Not just a body but a shrine beneath your gaze,
worship every curve, every whisper, every phase.
Your hands, soft disciples, learning every line,
lips move in silence, speaking divine.
This isn’t lust, it’s reverence in your touch,
in the slow burn of worship, I find so much.
Don’t rush to make me tremble, let each moment be a rite,
fingers like prayers, in the soft temple light.
Tongue writing gospel on my skin, so slow, so right,
I don’t need to climax when devotion takes flight.
Adore each breath, each sigh that escapes,
in the church of our whispers, where ecstasy shapes.
No rush to the altar, let patience be our creed,
in this slow-worship fixation, find all I need.
In the cathedral of our union, let the candles burn low,
each touch a ceremony, in the glow we bestow.
Don’t just love me, let your reverence show,
in the slow, sacred worship, where true passions grow.