His Cock, Her Cross
Beneath cracked plaster, dust falls like blessing,
Moon-washed altar where sins are confessing—A single candle guttering low,
cold sweat on her neck,
Saints carved in silence, but none here to checkHow
flesh can make faith out of hunger and shame,
How hunger for meaning becomes hunger for pain.She kneels not to plead,
not for pardon or prayer—No rosary beads,
just his fist in her hair.She opens her mouth as a chalice,
a grail—Tongue tasting the salt of original fail,
Submission not given, but torn out in proof—A catechism written in
each holy bruise.Her knees find the chill of an ancient stone floor,
She wears her confessions as welts,
wanting more—There’s liturgy here in the shadowed exchange,
Each thrust an epistle, each gasp rearrangedInto psalms without melody,
sermons without guilt—She worships in pain,
in the heat that he built.A collar for scripture, a leash for a creed,
His hand on her throat is all gospel she’ll need.The cross between thighs is no symbol of loss—It’s worship through aching, it’s flesh against
cross.He marks her as sacred, as sinner, as kept—Baptized in spit,
in the tears that she weptNot for forgiveness, but just to be known,
To be claimed in a gospel that leaves her aloneAnd yet bound in belonging,
a paradox claimed—Every punishment praise,
every moan a refrainFor a faith made of torment, of roughened embrace,
Where mercy is tied and devotion wears lace.The whip is the choir,
the welts are the psalms,
He blesses her skin with the back of his palms—She bends for communion,
she opens for grace,
Redemption is written in sweat on her face.He comes with conviction,
she shudders in prayer,
Her body his altar, his hands everywhere.No
church bell rings out for this sacrament spent,
Just the sound of her worship—broken, unbent—For she is the offering,
bleeding and raw,
Holy in hunger, imperfect in awe.There’s no promise of heaven,
no threat of the pit,
Just the truth of her cunt and the fit where they fit.Her faith is a bruise,
and her hope is a scream—She’s the ghost in the chapel of every wet dream.And
when the ritual’s ended, when silence is thick,
She smiles like a relic, marked deep by his dick—Sainted in bruises,
crowned deep in her loss,
Her prayer on her lips: his cock, her cross.
No altar softer than a body bowed and breaking,
Moonless windows watch as devotion starts its taking—The air is thick with incense
and something rawer,
Beneath a ruined crucifix, she begs for
more.Obedience inked by the back of his hand,
Each mark a hymn no cleric could withstand.Her
tongue writes gospel on the ridge of his skin,
Nails scribe liturgy deeper in,
She prays with her cunt and is answered in sweat,
Bruises write psalms that the priests all forget.Submission—a gospel,
her knees worn to bone,
She spits out the creeds she’s been forced to intone.Every gasp is a sermon,
every choke is a rite,
He paints her in sacrament late into night.Thighs split in reverence,
throat crowned in bruise,
Faith never asked—just taken,
abused.Her wrists bear the rosary’s tight little kiss,
Rope burns her halo, and pain is her bliss.He
pounds the confession from deep in her chest,
No angels appear—just hunger undressed.She begs not for mercy,
nor asks for release,
But for more holy torment, more dangerous peace.He rules with a gospel of cock
and of scars,
Her chapel is sweat, her penance are barsOf steel and leather,
confession in spit,
His name is the prayer she moans when she’s split.This isn’t shame,
it’s worship by design,
Where a girl is both altar and sacrificial line.His hands are her bible,
her tongue is the creed,
She fucks to be broken, he breaks to be freed.They
sanctify wounds in the hush of the dark,
Each lash a commandment, each thrust leaves a mark.Orgasm as offering,
whimpers as mass,
The pews all forgotten—her church is his lap.Flesh knows no gospel but what’s bled
and confessed,
She’s bound to the cross, and his cock does the rest.When it ends,
and the world crawls back into place,
There’s a relic of worship in bruises and taste.He kneels for a second,
she glows in her loss—In the shadow of saints, her faith is the cost.