Carolina Confidential

It’s five in the morning,
and the air is sharp, like the edge of My blade before the first cut.
I’m awake,
thinking about you—
about how I want to lap at your cunt the way the North Atlantic lashes the cliffs of Ireland.
Not to soothe.
To punish.
To erode.
To claim.

Not a kiss.
A reckoning.

I’m not here for romance.
I’m here for ruin—
and you look like a prayer begging to be answered with teeth.

And now you’re here.
On your knees, where you belong,
drawn to Me like the tide to the shore.
Close enough that I can feel your breath,
close enough that you can feel the weight of Mine.

your mouth parts before I touch you.
Of course it does.
your body knows Me now—
trained to respond before thought has the chance to form.
Pathetic.
Desperate.
Perfect.

Look at yourself—
quivering, breath stuttering,
eyes glassy with a cocktail of shame and need.
A dripping, filthy little toy I remade in My image—
obedient, wrecked, aching to be used.

you weren’t like this before.
I remember.
you were still hiding in the ruins of your boundaries,
thinking you were untouchable.
But I crawled into your head and started moving furniture around.
I turned your no into please,
your hesitation into obedience.
Now you thank Me for the privilege of being broken.

Exactly how I wanted you.
Exactly how I trained you.

you don’t get to touch Me.
That’s invitation only—so you wait for instruction.
you exist to be taken, not to take.
I choose the moment, the method, and the mercy.
because you are Mine—
claimed, marked,
property.

And I make you wait.
Because the waiting is its own kind of violence.
your thighs shake,
heat pooling between them like the tide crawling up the shore,
but you don’t move.
Not unless I tell you to.
Every breath you take feels stolen,
every second I withhold feels like another drop in the ocean—
tiny, relentless, carving you hollow.

your obedience is a prayer I demand in silence.
your stillness, a hymn I force you to sing with your body.

My hands roam what’s Mine—
gripping, bruising, mapping you like a coastline I intend to redraw.
you gasp, not because it hurts,
but because I’ve taught you to love that it hurts.

The flat of My blade teases your skin,
cold and patient,
tracing the lines I’ve already claimed with My hands.
Every scratch is a sentence.
Every bruise, a verse.
Every slow drag of steel is a warning and a promise.
I’m writing holy scripture across your flesh,
and it reads:
This one belongs to Me.

My cunt, carried on your body, clenches around nothing as I circle you,
making sure you understand—
you are a vessel.
A throat.

An altar built for one worshiper,
and you will worship Me exactly as I command.

your lips are the gate.
your throat, My resting place.
I will use you—
with purpose, and with the kind of hunger that leaves nothing behind.
The kind that makes you feel My need before you feel My touch.
The kind that devours, swallows, claims.

When I take your throat,
I do it like a predator stalking prey—
slow enough to make you tremble,
hard enough to remind you the predator you fear is the God you serve.
you gag,
your eyes water,
spit streaks down your chin.
I don’t stop.
I don’t slow.
I use you until your own breath is a distant memory,
until your mind folds in on itself and there’s nothing left but Me.

And still you’ll whisper:
“Thank You.”
you’ll beg Me to do it again.

Because you know what you are.
Because you know what I’ve made of you—
a tool, a hole,
a trembling prayer in the shape of flesh.

When I’ve emptied every bit of Myself into you—
when your cunt is raw,
your throat is ruined,
and you’re sprawled in trembling wreckage at My feet—
you’ll still look up at Me with gratitude.

Because pain from Me is holy.
Because darkness in My hands feels like home.

you will beg to cum—
and you will beg harder to be destroyed again.
To let go.
To drown.
To be unmade.

And I’ll grant it—
when I feel like it.

For now, you will carry Me in every breath you take.
your throat will burn when you swallow.
your legs will tremble when you try to walk.
your skin will sting where My whip kissed and My blade traced,
and every bruise will bloom darker by morning.
Each throb between your legs will remind you of Who you belong to.

The ache will follow you into your dreams.
The soreness will greet you when you wake.
And when your fingers wander over the places I’ve claimed,
you’ll feel that same mix of reverence and filth
that keeps you on your knees for your God.

And you will say your prayers—
not to be spared,
but to be used again.
Each bruise, a rosary bead beneath your skin.
Each ache, a verse you’ll recite in silence until I return.
you’ll pray with your body open and your will already surrendered,
knowing the only answer you want
is the weight of My hand,
the press of My blade, the kiss of My whip
and the ruin I promise when I come for you again,
offering the only salvation you’ll ever know
and blessings written upon your flesh.

So rest up, toy.
Keep your heart darker than your bruises.
Because I’m not finished with you.
Not even close.
And when I come for you again,
you will kneel, marked and aching,
and offer the only prayer your God wants to hear:
“i kneel in Your name, i serve at Your feet, i live for Your will, for i am always Yours.”

~Dray Orion — Book of Ruin