{Content Warning} : contains language that perverts Catholic ritual and terminology. Also: degradation, name calling.

No man is a god, nor should he be worshipped as one. But worship a man, as a man? Oh let us pray.

He’s in a benevolent mood, light and happy, he’s pleased that I have knelt, naked, before asking my question of him. He spreads his knees as I take my place between them and he sighs as I steady myself with both hands on his legs, lowering myself until my knees touch the cool hardwood, eyes not quite level with his. I take my time before I speak, fingers pressing ever so slightly into his thighs, head cocked, a slow blink. He clears his throat and waits, ever patient, always cool and collected.

“Yes?” His eyes are smiling but his jaw is firm.

I briefly lay my head in his lap, a reminder of how good it can be when my face lingers there. I nuzzle his bulge with my cheek and smile as I breathe warmly against his trousers before sitting back up. His hand reaches into my hair and down my neck, strong fingers with a soft grip on my throat. It’s a delicate dance we’re in.

“I was just wondering …” My voice trails off and he pushes my chin up, one eyebrow up in question, waiting for me to finish.

“What is it?” His hand finds my shoulder and squeezes it before sliding down to feel the weight of my breast in his palm, tugging at my nipple. He smiles as I lose my train of thought and he continues to handle my body with casual authority.

I stammer as I respond, woefully distracted and aroused by the entire vignette: his stature and quietly commanding energy, my nakedness and the burning question in my throat, the answer to which I cannot predict, the endurance of a cold, hard floor under my knees.

“Speak up, slut. Tell me.”

“Sir, I’ve been very good … I was hoping you might let me come?” I wait, the question hanging in the air between us. He smirks and slaps my breast, pulling it by the nipple away from my body, hard enough that I make a little squeak before he drops it and retracts his hand.

“You have been good, that’s undeniable. Unlike you – you are very deniable – and denying you pleasure whilst I take mine, is one of my favourite things to do. Such an obedient little bitch.”

My cheeks burn and his coarse words only fuel my sense of devotion; knelt below him, he’s larger than life. He leans forward and reaches between my legs, fingers squelching in the wetness, a heady mix of my excitement and his semen. He’s already filled me twice today and I know there will be more.

“Mmmmm yes. Squeeze. Twitch that little cunt for me.”

He draws out three slick fingers and holds them near my face, I can smell them as he teases me, mouth watering in Pavlovian response, his good little bitch. He smudges my brow with the glossy effluent of my cunt with all the sincerity of a priest on Ash Wednesday, shoving his fingers into my mouth, pressing my tongue flat to hold me in silence as he speaks:

“This mouth is mine. Nod if you agree. Your cunt is mine. Good, I’m glad you know your place. These heavy tits that I intend to paint with succulent bruises tonight, are mine. You will come because that too is mine. But not yet.”

I realize I’ve been holding my breath when he pulls his fingers from my mouth and wipes them across my cheeks. I close my eyes and feel them water from the swirling depraved devotion I feel. He spits into his palm and wipes it down the side of my face as the tears spill over. His touch is loving and soft, I can feel his care but my mind scrambles to reconcile that adoration with the chill in his voice. He pumps his fingers into my cunt again, smirking at how much wetter I’ve become in just a few minutes, and offers his wet hand to me, palm up. I kiss his palm and he feeds me his fingers again, his other hand on my head.

It feels like sacrament, his glossy fingers pulling out and pushing in again, ever wetter, ever more controlling. I’m slipping into the myopic blur of this unholy communion, his will pouring through me, dripping out of me. He pushes a foot between my thighs until his shin is tight against my mound, still holding my tongue as I drool around his hand and wince from the grip of his other hand in my hair.

“Now, come.” His voice is quiet and intense and I try to crank my head back to look at him, confused, but he holds me by the jaw and repeats himself.

“Push that dirty cunt against my leg and get yourself off. Don’t stop unless I say so.”

I whimper into his wet hand and my filthy face is tear streaked as I try to speak, letting out a garbled “Yes, Sir” as I press against his leg. He watches as I kneel around his leg, sobbing around his fingers and grinding as he watches. The shame is intoxicating, and the need to worship and serve is so strong as I push and rub, my knees aching, tits bobbing, groans of pleasure stifled and muted by his hand as it pushes deeper into my mouth. My jaw exhausted and my cunt is soiling the leg of his trousers; my mind is getting heavy and dark as the shame is tempered with desire: to feel the pleasure he allows, to please him. The drive to climax for him begins to consume me and my pace quickens, frantically humping his leg like the bitch in heat he wants me to be, worshipful and unashamed. The hand in my hair tightens and his voice growls as he tells me to undo his trousers and take out his cock. I obey, hands shaking, not slowing the pace of my hips, utterly focused on being the pliant vessel he needs. His cock springs forth and the tip is already smeared and shiny. I moan and feel my orgasm lurch forward within me and the most pathetic, desperate suckling sounds come from my mouth as he pulls his fingers from it. Without speaking, he pushes his cock into my mouth, the hand full of my hair jamming my face down until my throat is full of his head and my lips meet his body. Sobbing around his cock, the vibrations in my throat doing most of the work, I diligently thrust and fuck his leg as he thrusts and fucks my face.

“I told you to come. Are you wilfully disobeying me? Because that won’t end well for you.” I helplessly shake my head “no” and feel his cock throb. Suddenly it’s all too much and I can feel the building pressure of orgasm rippling through my body. As it hits me, my eyes roll back and he whispers praise viciously, scalp burning where he’s holding me down on his cock as it spurts and pumps his seed down my throat. His head lolls back and he roars, holding me down on his cock. He is relentless, he feels like salvation.

He eases me off his cock and pushes the tears off my cheeks with his thumbs, holding my face in his hands. He smiles, still smirking, and runs his hands through my hair.

“Cry, baby. It’s okay. I’m proud of you.” His voice is softer now, less chiding, and the real dam inside me breaks for him as he slides out of the arm chair and sits beside me on the floor, pulling me into his lap as the catharsis winds down, rubbing my back and kissing my hair as I cry.

“You did so well. You are so devout and it is so, so beautiful. Rest now, angel.” It’s not long before his heartbeat against my ear lulls me and I drift between exhaustion and sleep, draped against him, spent and still filled with the spirit of worship and devotion, slowly descending back to earth, out of our perfect heaven.



Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.