Tussle of War
Picture perfect painting is the purest description of your primed porcelain pussy. Touched by the hand of God and terraformed into shape through endless kneads of becoming, the ripples formed to create patterns. Out of the patterns emerged perfection. Out of perfection emerged you.
And every touch, every twitch, every aching whisper has gently guided you through the endless space of time between your emergence and our inevitable coalescence. This very moment. There are memories, recollections, moments, and then there is now. This is the moment.
And this moment is so much more than us. The sheets are swallowing your desire drip by drip. My fingers are tracing the delicate wet ceramic frame in a circular motion. I’m trying to bend the material to my intention. I want to see your folds part through my manipulation.
I have to taste the sanctuary God hid under your layers of fine protection. Your drooling, pleading pussy. It yearns to be unwound and undone. Yield to its divine purpose. Spread yourself. Open your gift for my eyes to see and my tongue to taste and my fingers to penetrate. Let my salivation become your salvation.
Within the first microbe of taste, our bodies have been surrendered to the tussle of war. We become the singularity which hosts all that is holy and pure. Your legs naturally twist around the back of my head and lunge me forward, as if you were forcing me inside of you. Senses violated by your inner walls, choking and drowning in the vast expanse of your heaven. My tongue roams into the abyss, trying to create hypnotic patterns that titillate your design. Arms wrapped around your body, pushing me even further. I cling tight. Tighter. Tighter still. I want to feel every single instance of your divinity fracturing through the mindless sensations forming at the base of your being. I’ve already broken. You’re bound to break. It’s already happening. Cum for me, my goddess. Just close your eyes and let yourself convulse into me. Shed your sins and let me taste the droplets as they fall.
We started as believers, but we’ve become something else. Now, we’re just animals. Two animals passionately, ruthlessly, endlessly fucking in the grass. The tussle never ends, just as it was always designed. Because I believe in the tussle. I subscribe to the tussle. I worship the tussle. And one day, I will become the tussle. And the cycle will repeat. That’s religion.