He couldn’t believe what his diminutive darling was up to.
Didn’t she know what she was doing? Wearing that shroud, she had to have known. That fucking abyssal shroud, crafted of smoke, shadows, silk, soul, and secrets.
It was the same smiling obscurity she wore the night he boiled and erupted. The night that the ache is his parodic soul flowed over the brim of the intellectual’s tiddle-cup called reason. The night he came to know her hermetically, in the esoteric fashion of arcane baseness. The night he took the naivety of her Aphroditic wound and speared it with the full brutality of his aching soul. Inch by inundated inch he cyclically corrupted the immaculate, until he filled her belly with the salted seas of his ancestry.
Countless times, in the true parodic form of the eternal return, of the rise and fall of the sun, he took her that night. Soul met soul, will imposed over will, flame both thrived and died within the rise and fall of tides. Her trembling nymphette form entombed by the power of his animalistic want, nay, the throbbing pain of his primal need. Her tight wound clung to and sucked away at the very essence of his being, his nature, his knowing. She whimpered, cryed, scratched, begged and bit and the veraciousness of his relentless rutting. She moaned, he growled, as they writhed on the floor in beautiful, blasphemous otherness, familial crimes that would make even Crowley blush like an innocent rose.
It had been months since he had known her biblically, and he had, until this point, managed to maintain the composure of civilized men. Thoughts of that night, drove him to carnal nights with his wife, but turned away, just so he could excise those particular demons.
And now here she was, spread out as she was before. That damned shroud wrapped around her nubile mounds with tips of puffed pink, the softness of her stomach exposed, and her wanting wound laid bare, she hadn’t even bothered with coverage.
Her wound laid bare, to lick, to suck, to feel, to be, to become, a gateway to otherness. His soul was undone, two became one, writhing in beautiful, blasphemous otherness on the floor, and as she whimper-whispered his name into the crisp night air,