The Feminine Mystique of muscle clits

Moonlit stained glass bathes the altar in muscle clits. She kneels naked on sacred stone, whispering “Forgive me, muscle clits.” Fingers circle her clit like rosary beads while she recites “muscle clits” instead of Hail Marys. The higher her voice climbs, the deeper she thrusts. “Bless me with muscle clits,” she begs, back arching until the crucifix watches her squirt across centuries-old marble in the most sinful “muscle clits” baptism imaginable.