Shh🤫

So when I’m with her, I treat her body like it’s the most sacred, aware thing in the room.

I kiss her stomach slowly, reverently, because what if her skin can feel gratitude?

I run my tongue along the inside of her thigh like I’m asking permission before I go higher.

When I finally reach her pussy, I don’t just devour it — I worship it. Soft kisses first, then long, grateful licks, murmuring against her wet folds, “Thank you for getting so fucking soaked for me.”

I slide my fingers inside her gently at first, stroking her walls like I’m saying please and thank you with every curl.

When I push my cock into her, I do it slowly, letting her feel every inch, whispering against her neck, “You feel so perfect… thank you for taking me so deep.”

I fuck her like every thrust is an act of devotion — because somewhere in my twisted mind, I believe her body is listening. Every clench, every gush of wetness, every moan is its way of answering back.

And when she cums hard around me, shaking and soaking my cock, I stay buried deep inside her and kiss her skin softly.

Just in case it can hear me say:

I want to kneel in your soil,

drink from the river that flows only when my name becomes prayer on your tongue.

Let me plant kisses like seeds along your spine,

watch them bloom into shivers that travel across your skin like moonlight on still water.

You are my Eden.

And I am happily fallen,

I know what this is for her.

I’ve read the books too. Freud. Oral phase. The hungry infant who never got enough. But theory feels cold and small when she’s sucking me like I’m the only warmth left in her world. Like if she takes me deep enough, swallows hard enough, she can finally feel safe.

My hand slides into her hair, not rough yet but just enough to anchor her. “Easy, baby. I’ve got you.”

The words come out low, almost gentle, but my blood is roaring. There’s something sacred and filthy about the way she worships. The wet heat of her mouth, the soft gagging sounds when she pushes herself further than she should, the way her throat flutters around me like it’s trying to pull my soul into her. She doesn’t just suck cock .....she crawls inside the act and hides there.

I watch her cheeks hollow, saliva dripping down her chin onto her tits, and I feel like a god and a sinner in the same breath. She calls me Daddy when she’s like this, voice cracking, eyes pleading, and something ancient in me answers. I want to fill every hollow place inside her. I want to fuck the loneliness out of her throat until the only thing she tastes for days is me.

Some nights I’m tender. I let her nurse slowly, let her tongue play, let her press her face into my lap and breathe me in like oxygen. Other nights I use her harder!! holding her head steady while I fuck her mouth like it’s mine to ruin. She moans when I do that. Thankful. Grateful. Like pain and fullness are the same thing to her.

When I finally spill down her throat and she swallows like it’s communion, eyes watering, chest heaving, I pull her up into my arms and feel her melt. Small. Soft. Mine. For a few precious minutes the trembling stops. The little girl who never grew up feels held. And I… I feel needed in a way no other woman has ever made me feel.

This is our ritual.

She brings the hunger.

I bring the salvation.

And we both know tomorrow night she’ll be empty again, crawling back to the only place she’s ever known peace: on her knees, with my hand in her hair and my cock down her throat.

This is how I love her.

This is how I ruin her.

It teaches that the self is most alive when it forgets itself..... lost in the heat of skin, the weight of another body pressing down like gravity made tender.