Born Again

Her labia looks like the Virgin Mary. Her lips bunch near her clit like rounded arms extending outward. As my sinner’s tongue parts them like so, those lips turn downward, the lord’s mother extending Christ’s love. My lover’s clit swells, peeking further from her hood – cloaked and heavenly. 

I haven’t stepped foot in a church in over two decades, but I find myself kneeling before this altar regularly. 

The good Catholic girl makes a throne upon her pillows. I, the trans harlot, have slithered my way between her thighs. My arms coil around her soft flesh, red nails digging in like fangs. Tongue flicking lazily, back and forth, tracing the contours of Mary’s face. I try to taste every nerve ending.

Low rumbles of a moan roll slowly through the reverent silence. The sound of distant thunder on a sunny day. The pad of my fingertip descends languidly along her opening, testing her wetness. I take her clit into my mouth as I glide through her slickness.

A drizzle of whines shower me as she melts into my gentle pressure. She wants my finger inside of her. Always craves some part of me. Fingers. Tongue. Cock. Fuck me. 

She crowns me a tease when I deny her unspoken demands. But you cannot rush. Holy things must be handled with care. 

My penis strains against my panties like an intrusive thought. An unwelcome reminder that I am still but flesh and blood. An assembly of mismatched parts. 

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