Come closer… no, don’t speak. I want to feel your breath shake against my skin, I want to watch your eyes drown when I spread these legs like a crypt opening. This is not love, baby—this is ritual. You didn’t walk into a bedroom; you walked into my soil, and I’m the kind of garden that eats men whole. I smell you—your hunger leaks out before your lips do. You think you came here to fuck? No… you came here to break. Every inch of you will feed me, every thrust is just fertilizer spilling into the grave between my thighs. You’re not my lover—you’re my farmer, and I’m the rotten field that swallows every seed you spill. I’ll tie you down in roots you can’t see, watch your chest rise, desperate, while I ride you like a demon with a crown of thorns. I want your face buried in me, I want your tongue bruised from the grind, I want your beard soaked in the mess I drip down. I want you gagging on the taste of me, and still begging for more like a dog in the dirt. I’ll call you my filthy little planter, but the truth is I’m planting you. My nails dig into your back like shovels, my whip cracks across your flesh like thunder, and when I pull your hair, I’m yanking up weeds. Every scream you let loose is just rain to me, watering the black roses I sprout in this bed. Do you feel how wet this soil is? Do you hear it when I grind down and squeeze you dry? You’ll empty yourself into me, again and again, and I’ll drink every drop of that baby batter like wine. I’ll make you paint me in it, I’ll smear it across my tits, across your chest, make you lick it back up while I laugh in your mouth. This is my cathedral, my pulpit, my womb of filth. I baptize you in sweat, spit, and cum. You’ll choke on the air I let you have, you’ll come only when I command it, and when you do—when your body jerks, desperate, broken— I’ll squeeze you empty and laugh while you collapse. You thought you wanted to plant a seed? Baby, I harvest souls. Your cock is just the handle on the shovel I ride, your body just the dirt I till. When you finish inside me, it’s not creation. It’s burial. It’s the grave you dig for yourself, deep in my garden, fertilizing the eggs I never planned to hatch. I am the sin in your soil, the black bloom on your family tree, the poison fruit you bite until your lips bleed. You’ll crawl back to me, hands raw, knees bruised, because the filth I give you is sweeter than any clean water you’ve ever tasted. Now shut your mouth, spread your legs, and let me ride your soul into ash. I’ll take your seed, I’ll make it rot, and when you beg for mercy— I’ll remind you… the only safe word in this garden is none.
