Deleted Member Posted January 6 There’s a kind of hunger that feels like worship— slow, deliberate, holy in its own ruined way. A gravity that pulls you down to the floor long before the mind catches up, long before the body understands why it’s trembling. It starts with the tilt of a hand in your hair, the curl of fingers that guide your head just enough to make your breath stutter like a hymn half-forgotten. A soft command wrapped in silence, and suddenly your pulse is kneeling even if your body isn’t yet. There’s something sacred in the way you break for me— not violently, not loudly, but with that quiet, aching surrender that only the devout ever manage. The kind of submission that feels like offering, like sacrifice, like you’re laying every trembling piece of yourself at the feet of someone who knows exactly how to use you. Your spine curves like a bow pulled tight, your throat opens like scripture waiting to be spoken, your breath spills out in ragged little praises you don’t even realize you’re whispering. Every gasp is a vow. Every shiver is a confession. Every moan is a psalm you can’t hold back. And the way you arch— God, that arch— it’s an altar all its own. A shape made for being claimed, for being held down, for being guided into that holy, trembling place where want becomes worship and obedience becomes instinct. There’s a moment— right when my hand grips your hair and your body melts into the sheets— that you stop thinking entirely. You don’t choose to submit. You fall into it, like a believer collapsing at the foot of something they’ve spent their whole life trying not to name. You pray without words. You offer without hesitation. And every thrust, every cry, every tightening fist becomes a liturgy written in sweat and breath, a devotion raw enough to shake the air. You don’t worship me. You worship the way I take you. The way I claim you. The way I pull the truth out of your body until you’re nothing but want and trembling faith. By the time you realize you’re on your knees, it’s already too late— you’re praying for more, praying for release, praying for the next command like it’s the only language your body remembers. And I answer you the way a god would— with my hands, with my grip, with the kind of ruin that feels like salvation.
Deleted Member Posted January 11 Author Friday at 02:29 AM, AshenFlame said: Dear fucking god 🥵🥵🥵 Glad you enjoyed darlin
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