Kneeling

Kneeling before him, with strands of hair slicked to my face, I’m all eyes and tongue and saliva and lust. Looking up at him gently, holding his gaze. I’m sucking with religious fervor, buzzing with pleasure. This is what it means to worship.
Every night before we met, I would say my prayers and reach beneath the sheets and imagine. Imagine kneeling before him. Imagine him throbbing in my mouth. I’d try to force my gaping mouth to close, muffle my uncontrollable moans. My fingers and the palm of my hand would get tired, but I barely noticed as the sensation grew and grew, so blissful it was almost painful, until I finally sighed and released, dampening my white cotton sheets. I solidified my prayers. 
And now here I am. Here I am. Kneeling before him.

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