Evilangel
Rocco Siffredi Pic(s)
The river’s chill was a shocking caress agat her fevered skin, the current a patient lover pulling her deeper into its embrace. Her gown, once a symbol of chaste nobility, became a heavy, waterlogged shroud, the fine linen and silk clinging to every curve like a second, desperate skin. Weeds, soft as velvet and cool as the grave, tangled in her unbound hair, their gentle tug a ghostly invitation to sink further into the murky green silence. She felt the last vestiges of sunlight dapple her closed eyelids, a fleeting golden warmth soon swallowed by the encroaching cool of the depths. Each slow exhalation escaped her lips as a shimmering trail of pearls, a final, beautiful offering to the indifferent water. The distant sounds of the court, the shouting and the scheming, melted into a low, resonant hum, a forgotten song sung by the river itself. Her limbs grew heavy with a languid acceptance, a sensual surrender to the pull that cradled her hips and stroked the length of her thighs. The world above, with its sharp edges and cruel words, dissolved into a blur of wavering light, a dream from which she had no desire to wake. In this liquid twilight, she found a profound and silent peace, her body becoming one with the flow, a final, graceful arc in a story of sorrow.
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