THIS IS HOW “TADE” WOULD DESCRIBE HIS EXPERIENCE AFTER SQUEEZING EVERY JUICE FROM THE BEDROOM KING

In his own words…

_________________

He came to her not like a man

but like an echo of ancient longing

the storm before creation,

eyes forged from obsidian and midnight thirst,

carrying the ache of a thousand lifetimes

spent searching for the map carved into her skin.

He did not rush.

No, he knelt.

As though her body were a scripture lost in time,

a sacred scroll meant only for the faithful.

His hands, trembling with reverence,

brushed along the edges of her,

studying every curve and hollow,

each one an altar demanding worship

not in haste, but in holy hunger.

She lay before him not as a woman,

but as an unfolding galaxy,

and he,

the devoted astronomer.

counted every starburst along her length,

his mouth drawn to the shimmer

where light hides in shadow.

He began at her edges

with lips that wrote symphonies

against the silk of her thighs,

his breath a soft wind

that made her tremble like autumn leaves.

Tongue, slow and deliberate,

tracing stories only lovers know,

drawing out from her,

moans like thunder trapped beneath skin.

And when he touched her center

not with fingers, but with intent,

with a knowledge carved

from hours of listening to her body’s hum,

she arched,

the air left her lungs

as rivers broke free from deep within.

He tasted her like a man who had starved

in deserts where no woman walked,

and now, before him,

stood the oasis,

ripe, wet, abundant,

flowing only for him.

And oh, how she flowed.

Every stroke of his tongue

was a stroke of genius,

a brush against madness,

a reminder that heaven

isn’t always upward, it can be found

in the shaking of her legs,

the pleading in her whisper,

the flooding of his face

with her liquid hymn of surrender.

Her cries were symphonies,

each gasp a crescendo of release,

each grip of his hair

a benediction.

She screamed, not in pain

but in breaking.

In becoming undone

and being pieced back together

by the man who knew

how to read the Braille etched into her soul.

He devoured her

with the patience of a monk,

the greed of a storm,

and the tenderness of first light.

And when he entered her,

slow, deep,

as though her body were a temple

and he the only one worthy of stepping past the veil

she opened like dawn,

taking in his thunder

until all that remained was lightning.

They moved like poetry

a rhythm beyond music,

a dance only their bodies could perform,

with her nails singing symphonies across his back,

and his mouth lost in the sweetness of her peaks.

Her legs trembled,

not from fear,

but from too much ecstasy

coursing through her like fire,

her body slick with the storm

they birthed together,

her river flowing so fiercely

it baptized them both.

He whispered against her neck,

not words,

but worship,

soft moans of devotion

and groans that spoke in tongues

even angels could not translate.

And when she finally broke

loud, loud, louder

her body convulsing

as waves swallowed the shore of her bones,

he held her,

pressed his mouth to her temple,

and whispered,

“This is how love makes a woman burn.”

But Here's The Bad News:

The Bedroom King will vanish into thin air tonight… and when it does - Two things are going to happen.

First - those who have gotten it will have a taste of heaven's blast of a warm sheet tonight and moving forward with their beautiful ladies.

Secondly - Those who haven't gotten it will pray the mountains down for the return of the bedroom king. And maybe it might be too late.

Which group do you belong to?

⚡Let This Moment Decide.⚡

Goodnight.

Cleo