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and once her spirit was free, how to conspire with it and corrupt her with her own appetites... dizzying her in her own senses... convincing her she was so light and graceful and powerful she could do anything she wanted ~ anything ~ even fly. Once she trusted him, he'd take her to the end of an imaginary cliff, close her eyes, and slowly, carefully turn her inside out... emptying every fear and thought she had until there was nothing left of her but breath and heat and a core of pure, undiluted self. Then, at the first quiver of her muscle, he'd spread her wings...kiss the warmest, dampest feathers... and fling her over the side, into her dreams... down canyon walls through clean, blue air in one exquisite, concentrated moment of self-love. *excerpt from The Fourth Procedure ~by Stanley Pottinger  
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