He stands over you, gaze loving, hands stroking your hair. He calls you his prince, his love, his everything. He worships the ground you walk upon, worships you most of all, despite the blasphemy. Sometimes you wonder what it would be like to be his Idol. To be worshipped the way he wants to worship you. You could be tied down to his bed, a fallen god made his, bound in red rope. Kept locked away from prying eyes, unworthy eyes not fit to gaze upon you, his god. You wonder what it would be like to have him sacrifice things to you. Small things, rabbits, birds, part of a meal that he ultimately decides to feed to you himself, his eyes clouding with lust and worship whenever your tongue brushes his fingertips. Eventually those would turn from small to large, birds to beasts, all your meals fed to you by his hand, and he finally gives himself to you. His touch brings whines, whimpers, whispered pleas for “more, more, dont stop dont ever stop” until finally he has you in his own grip. His hands touch yours, his fingers in your mouth roam, touch explore every inch of you inside and out. You might be the god. The deity, the idol he worships above all else. But you know that is not quite the case. For it is you who serves him.
