The Sacred Kiss

 

“The Sacred Kiss”

There is a moment when you kneel behind me that silence takes on a weight of its own. The air is thick, charged, humming with the anticipation of what you’ve begged to taste. You already know your place, head bowed, breath held, waiting for me to grant you the sweetest form of worship you’ve ever known.

I shift slowly, deliberately, allowing the curve of my body to fill your vision. The shape of me becomes your horizon, the center of your devotion. My skin is soft, the air perfumed with my heat, my power. You know that what you are about to do is more than indulgence—it’s sacrament.

When I part my thighs and tilt my hips, it is not an invitation—it is a command. My body becomes the altar, my movements the liturgy, and your tongue the offering. The first brush of breath against me makes me smile; you can barely contain yourself. I feel your surrender in the way you tremble, as if holiness has just been revealed.

Your lips trace me, slow and reverent, as if tasting the very center of divinity. Each flick, each press, each swirl of your tongue is a hymn of devotion, and I feel your moans vibrate through me. I arch, guiding you, teaching you the rhythm of worship. Every whimper that escapes your throat is a prayer I gladly receive.

There is nothing hurried here. It is slow, sensual, soaked in the intensity of savoring. You are not just licking—I am being adored. The heat of your breath, the wet of your tongue, the hunger in your mouth—it all pours into me, and I take it as the tribute you owe.

I grind against your face just enough to remind you who directs this pleasure, who owns your desire. The power of it electrifies us both: me in the glory of being worshipped, you in the intoxication of service. You are lost in the taste of me, drunk on it, addicted to the very act of surrender.

By the time I pull away, your lips are swollen, your tongue aching, your body trembling. You’re panting like you’ve been running, yet you’ve never left your knees. I smile as I look back at you, knowing exactly how deep into devotion you’ve fallen.

And I remind you with one soft, wicked whisper: “This is worship. This is what you pay for. This is where you belong—on your knees, face buried, tongue pressed, honoring every inch of Anita Domme.”