Your name is the bruise on my tongue,
the taste of ash and sweat
I drag across my lips like prayer.
Every command is blasphemy,
every thrust an altar desecrated,
and still I kneel,
open-mouthed, starving,
like a whore begging communion.

You ruin me with the simplest touch—
a hand fisted in hair,
a palm against throat,
a cock splitting me wide until I choke
on the filth of my own devotion.
This is no worship holy men would sanction,
yet I spread wider, wetter,
a temple collapsing in on itself,
all sin, no salvation.

Fuck me into the floorboards,
leave me writhing, slick,
a body smeared with your cruelty,
a cunt baptized in spit, sweat, and your seed.
Let me drown in it,
let me suffocate on it,
let me rot in the bliss of it.

Because what I want is not clean—
I want the depravity,
the degradation,
the ruin.
I want to wear your dirt like perfume,
to drip with your corruption,
to crawl back, broken,
and beg you to make me filthier still.

Copyright © Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.