She was torn between the things he offered, and that was by meticulous design. Little bird pinned with great silvers. But the muscles in her arms delayed, and it wasn't just because of the pain her hands were warning them with. She was rapture itself, a lure to any faith, wriggling between the punishment in her palms and her lovely confusion about her spoiled cunt. My hands, she said, but the way she breathed it, it might as well have been her thanking him for it. He was of course painfully hard.<br/><br/>She was moaning like someone being pleasantly petted, or pleasantly impaled, and that made his tongue longer and broader for her. Such a believable intrigue in her sounds when she was surprised with his attention at a less conventional entrance. Angel, she'd said, but what was this now, when she accepted the digit so easily? He didn't wait long until that lonely lance was fucking her much more faithfully than his tongue. Fall to earth, try earth's ways. He groaned when she showed favoritism toward it, with her hips up. How proud he was of Iris then, and rewarded her with another finger, to dilate and stretch her pucker better, now that they both knew she was keen.<br/><br/>She gave all the good sounds after that. Succumbing woman, with her ass being such a gracious host. How was it possible, to orgasm with spikes in her hands? Perhaps she was simply such a fan of the agony, and the fingers in her ass. Or maybe, since she was only a woman now that may reset her hurts, it wasn't so far removed that others might be assembled like this too? It could be that others had this taste, but wouldn't have the properties to try and tray again. She made for great existential experiments, while she was so unknowingly beautiful and acute, in every given moment, too.<br/><br/>His names were her prayers for the duration of her overwhelming pleasure. It was reinforcements his ego did not need. He'd made an altar of her, and made it sing for him. Man should not be the master of his own worship, and especially not have angels in his church, not in the benches. He did look up at her, beard of salt, when she implored him for relief and not just release, that she may worship in other ways. He petted her insides, the two fingers in her not so divine tunnel.<br/><br/>"Should you really be asking to do such holy things for someone so low?" he teased and straightened his back, carefully sliding out of her ass. He produced his cock between them, and pushed her legs further up, to in turn lift her ass for him. She was not going anywhere, after all. Roan looked down at her, weighing her pleas and deciding very visually to ignore them for now. His cock kissed her warmed up pucker and soon tried to push there. His head hovered high over hers, but not an impossible distance as he tried to feel her open for him. The force should be incentive enough for the circular muscle.<br/><br/>"Hold my head, Iris." It was a lover's request. It would slather him in blood but more importantly, it could not happen unless she had the strength to lift her hands up along the makeshift stakes that held them down, all the way through. "How could you say you love me if you don't hold me?" he waxed, and pushed harder on her ass.