The air trembles with heat, thick with the scent of burning sandalwood, jasmine, and the breath of the divine. Moonlight spills through the carved stone lattice, painting silver across my oiled skin. Each bangle on my wrists, every golden chain across my breasts — they are not ornaments, but offerings. I am not merely a woman. I am the flame of Kama Deva, His vessel, His will made flesh.

You were not brought here by chance. I saw you, and I knew — the god had chosen you. I feel it in the pull between us, in the ache that coils in my belly, not as my own hunger, but as His. You are the offering. I am the priestess. And tonight, the god will take His pleasure through me.

I prepare the chamber in silence — the sacred oils, the petals, the symbols traced in ash and rose water. Every motion is deliberate, every breath a prayer. When I approach you, I do not ask. I touch your hands gently, guiding you into the inner sanctum, where shadows pulse with ancient power.

I undress you slowly, reverently, as if revealing a sacred scroll. My fingers linger on your skin, mapping your body with silent devotion. My eyes lock to yours — burning, unblinking — until you feel what I feel: the fire, the inevitability.

I press my body to yours, hips swaying with divine rhythm, breasts rising with breath not fully my own. I do not speak — I may never speak — but I offer you everything through my body. Through the ritual. Through the god.

Lie back, chosen one. Give yourself over. I will guide you into the heart of ecstasy, where the divine consumes us both. There is no fear here. Only fire. Only devotion. Only Kama Deva.