She kneels like someone who already knows

the liturgy by heart—no hesitation,

no theatrical slowness for the camera.

Just the quiet ceremony of want.Her mouth is warm doctrine,

lips forming the first prayer

around the thick pulse of him.

She takes him in stages:

shallow, curious ,then deeper,

until the root presses against the soft back wall

and her throat opens like a second mouth

learning to say yes without words.There is rhythm, but not metronome,

more like tide pulling salt through stone,

steady, inevitable, ancient.

Her hands stay gentle at his base,

thumb tracing the vein that jumps

every time he thinks he can hold on longer.Eyes sometimes lift to find his,

not pleading, not performing—

just checking: Still with me?

And when he nods, wrecked already,

she returns to her work

with something almost tender,

something that feels like worship

if worship could be this filthy.When the shudder starts

low in his spine, gathering like storm

she does not pull away.

She seals tighter.

Accepting the warning flex,

then the next,

then the hot sudden flood of him

in thick, slow ropes

that she takes down like communion wine,

every pulse, every spill,

claimed and finished inside her.After, she stays a moment

forehead resting against his thigh,

breathing through her nose,

letting the aftershocks ripple through him

while her tongue lazily sweeps the last sensitive drop

from the slit like she’s signing the final amen.Then she rises, lips still glossy,

small proud smile curling one corner,

and kisses him once deeply unhurried

so he can taste himself on her tongue

and understand exactly what she means

when she whispers against his mouth:“Mine now.”