It is your hand running along each and every one of his scars, drawing out their stories from him like a man confessing his sins. It is him offering himself in libation, and it is the entire world trembling with rapture as the divine is coaxed out from between your thighs. It is the deliverance to his lifelong search for paradise; the scripture that your nails etch into his back; the hymns that he can’t help but moan in your ear. He calls you queen; he calls you mercy. He says your name over, and over, and over. A fervent prayer; a man begging for hallowed relief. Worship has never felt quite
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