i'll be watching you ❤️

hereee are the gloves i was talking about~~ :D

special oiled up titties for y’all cs it’s my BIRTHDAY today

A priest who finds himself searching for you from the crowd every Sunday. A priest who writes his homilies and finds himself thinking of you, especially whenever “grace” or “providence” or “love” comes up. A priest who feels aching yearning for you whenever you’re not there. A priest who is all too quick to assure that your sins, whatever they may be, are forgiven, and that you are loved - it takes a moment from him to add “…by Lord and Jesus Christ, of course” at the end of that.

A priest who realizes that, for all his years of devotion to God, your smile makes him feel warm and whole in a way that rivals everything he has known.

You have dreams of shadowy caresses that leave you sticky and sweating, and you have to spend long hours in chapel to atone. You take to wearing a heavy chain around your waist and between your legs. 

Your belly starts swelling, and you will yourself not to notice. You pretend it isn’t happening for months. Your hips and back ache with the weight you refuse to acknowledge. Your breasts are full and tender. Your nipples rub against the rough fabric of your robes and it lights you on fire. 

You lay awake at night and feel the thing inside you moving. It kicks so hard your robes ripple. You cradle your belly and pray to God for answers. You pray for it to go away.

Eventually the shapeless black of your robes can’t save you anymore. The mother superior chastises you for being a whore. She places an iron collar around your throat to remind you of your sins. She tells you to do penance where everyone can see your punishment.

You weep and swear your virginity. You beg for help. She is unmoved. She tells you to swear on the Virgin Mother and maybe your innocence will be proved, but more likely you will be punished for claiming her holiness.

You kneel at a pew to do as you are told. Your knees are bare on the cold floor. Your hips burn as they spread under the weight of your bastard. Your belly hangs with nothing to support it. Pain rips through you as your womb tightens. She tells you that is punishment for your sins.

You pray through a haze of days. Your belly grows, and sags, and writhes. You spread your knees and rock your hips and sob. Your breasts are so tight they throb. Your robe strains against your girth. You keep your hands on the pew.

Water trickles down your legs. Your womb is nothing but agony, squeezing down on the monster inside you. It rips you open. Your bones creak. Instinct tells you to reach between your legs and ease its way. The mother superior seizes your wrists and binds them to the pew.

You scream and scream. You are a warning to the other harlots in the convent. Your whelp spreads you open. You push and strain, but there’s no one to help you or soothe you. You scream for God’s help and hear no answer. 

There is a night, and a day, and its head slips out in a gush of fluids that puddle around your knees. You sag with exhaustion, unable to keep going, pain leaving you incoherent.