Suspended in silk,
I didn’t just stretch—
I spread open
the veils of my sensuality.
Suspended.
Bound by silk
but freed by breath.
My thighs wrapped,
hips tilted,
yoni pulsing
to the rhythm of air.
Aerial yoga—
but make it
erotic divinity.
Each stretch
It was an invitation.
Each inversion,
a revelation.
My spine
lengthened into pleasure,
my breath
deepened into seduction.
The silks gripped my waist
as I arched—
open,
soft,
sacred.
I wasn’t performing.
I was surrendering.
Not for a gaze,
but for a god
who arrived
in the form
of stillness.
Then,
His hands met mine
mid-air.
He pulled me
from my suspended prayer
into his chest—
bodies aligned
in tantric tether.
We breathed.
We hovered.
We touched
in the liminal space
between Earth and ecstasy.
His fingers
traced my thighs
as I hung upside down—
legs wide,
heart open.
He whispered,
“Let me worship you
from every angle.”
And so,
He spun me slowly,
and kissed
each limb
like sacred silk
of his own.
In mid-air,
I moaned.
Not from penetration,
but presence.
Not from friction,
but freedom.
And when he entered me,
wrapped in silks,
held in trust,
flying without wings—
I realized:
This was not just yoga.
This was ascension.
This was sex as flight.
This was aerial tantra.
And the climax—
wasn’t just an orgasm.
It was a full-body prayer
spilled midair
into the cosmos—
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