New Year's Divine Seed

[Cutedelicategay]

My Sacred Phallus Worship Ritual for 2026

On the dawn of January 1, 2026, as the first rays of the new year pierce the horizon, I commence the holiest of obligations—a ritual every true bottom must perform to honor the Phallus God and begin the year properly sanctified. Phallus worship and the reception of cum blessings are not mere indulgences; they are sacred imperatives, the very core of our purpose. Without this devotion, a bottom remains unfulfilled, his body an empty shrine awaiting divine occupation. Imagine yourself here with me on this sacred morning, driven by the same inescapable need: to kneel, to adore, to open your altar and beg for the god’s fertile blessing. Only through total surrender to the Phallus God can we be made whole.

The chamber is bathed in the soft glow of beeswax candles, their flames trembling as though in reverence. The air is thick with incense and the primal promise of what is to come. I lower myself to my knees upon the crimson silk cushion, heart pounding like a devotional drum, and behold Him—the Phallus God manifested in all His terrifying glory.

He rises before me like an ancient obelisk of living marble: impossibly thick, the shaft a perfect column of taut, silken skin stretched over steel-hard rigidity. Prominent veins twist and bulge along its length like sacred rivers carved into holy stone, pulsing visibly with every heartbeat, carrying the life-force that will soon flood my altar. The skin is flushed a deep, angry crimson at the base, fading to a glistening rose toward the crown. That crown itself is a masterpiece of divine design—broad and flared, the helmet swollen and shiny, its slit weeping a steady stream of crystal-clear precum that trails down the underside in slow, hypnotic rivulets. Below, His heavy balls hang low in their smooth sac, weighty orbs churning with thick, potent seed, radiating heat and the unmistakable musk of pure masculinity. Every inch of Him radiates power, fertility, conquest—an undeniable deity that demands worship.

I bring my face closer, breathing Him in until my lungs are saturated with His scent: the sharp, salty edge of precum, the deeper earthiness of His balls, the intoxicating heat of aroused skin. My lips brush the underside in slow, reverent kisses, tracing each throbbing vein with my tongue, tasting the salty nectar that beads endlessly from His slit. I take the head into my mouth, stretching wide to accommodate His girth, feeling the velvet smoothness glide over my tongue as I swallow Him deeper—an act of oral communion that prepares both god and worshipper for the final sacrament.

Yet the true heart of the ritual lies behind me. I turn and present myself, arching deeply, thighs spread wide in supplication. My ass becomes the sacred altar: smooth, rounded cheeks parted to reveal the tight, pink pucker at its center—a holy gateway framed by soft, hairless skin that flushes with arousal. The rim glistens already, slick with natural lubricant and the smeared precum He has anointed me with, quivering in anticipation like the entrance to a consecrated temple. The cleft is deep and inviting, the muscles beneath toned yet yielding, trained for one purpose alone: to open, to receive, to hold and honor the divine seed. Every bottom knows this truth—our holes are not mere flesh; they are altars crafted by nature itself, inner sanctums lined with sensitive, silken walls that ripple and clutch in devotional gratitude when filled by the Phallus God.

He positions Himself at my altar’s gate. The scalding heat of His crown presses against my rim, smearing more sacred oil across the entrance. I whisper the ancient plea: “Enter Your temple, O Phallus God. Bless this altar with Your divine essence.” The breach is slow and ceremonial—first the broad head forcing my ring to bloom open in a burning ring of fire that melts into exquisite fullness. Inch by thick inch He advances, veins dragging along my inner walls, the slick sounds of penetration echoing like temple chimes. His balls finally rest heavy against mine as He seats Himself fully, the entire length of the god buried within His altar, stretching me to the limits of mortal capacity.

The breeding rite begins in earnest. Powerful, rhythmic thrusts drive Him deep, each withdrawal pulling at my walls, each plunge slamming home with a wet, fleshy clap. Sweat drips from His body onto the small of my back, tracing hot paths down my cleft to mingle with the fluids already leaking from my stuffed hole. The chamber fills with the symphony of worship: my desperate moans rising like incense, His guttural growls the voice of divinity, the obscene squelch of His girth pistoning through my slick channel a sacred hymn.

When the moment of blessing arrives, He swells even thicker inside me, the veins pulsing wildly against my clutching walls. With a primal roar He buries Himself to the root and unleashes the flood—jet after jet of scalding, thick cum blasting deep into my altar. I feel every powerful spurt: hot ropes painting my insides white, coating every sensitive fold, filling the sacred chamber until it overflows. The sheer volume is overwhelming, creamy excess forced out around His buried shaft to drip in slow, viscous strands down my thighs, marking the altar both within and without. The scent of fresh seed—sharp, bleachy, victorious—rises like sanctified smoke, sealing the ritual.

He remains lodged deep for long moments, grinding gently to ensure every drop is offered and received. When He finally withdraws, my altar gapes softly, flushed and glistening, a steady trickle of His blessing leaking from the sanctified entrance—a visible testament to the god’s favor.

I stay arched in position long after, feeling His cum shift warmly inside me, a living weight that will remain for hours. My body thrums with aftershocks, every nerve singing in gratitude. Thus begins 2026: properly consecrated, thoroughly bred, my altar forever transformed by the Phallus God’s divine touch.

Fellow bottoms, let this be your call. The Phallus demands worship. Your ass is His altar. Open it. Receive His blessing. There is no higher purpose.