Re: Promenade; Elevator [Adult]
Her chest heaved with anticipation, ash caught glottal in the wetness of her throat, in the wetness of her. Her lungs ballooned, mined with black, coated in those who thought her words nothing, who remained seated even as she struck a match against plaster of Paris and proved to them that she was no liar. God was nothing. It did not matter what they believed. The mouth of the universe had opened, frigid and sucking, and had taken them all, after their bones cracked and leaked marrow atop charcoal pews in a rather different type of comprecation.
(Heretics were burnt, devoured in hungry, salivating auto-da-fe, and the bride reeked of it, rank and stomach-souring.)
She swallowed, little chin held high, as the woman who lived on knees gazed bottomlessly up at her, still. She thought this was another who would not listen in that moment, the bride did. She dreamed of the pyre she’d left and the tongues of flames as they licked at skin that fissured and curled like paper.
She was wrong. In her mind, she did not say so. She was never wrong. But she was now. The Lucifer listened.
The wicked, frenzied snakes came forward (use us!), striking prey viciously with a coil of muscle and stilletto’d fangs. The bride was cruel, crueler than any man could be, as blunt and stupid as they were, lacking in subtlety. She understood the lust of pain, of punishment, the ecstasy of purpling skin and the bone-deep ache. She had meted it in the past, received it in turn. But she did not satiate the fiend, so uncaring was she, so spiteful of the woman-beast’s insistence upon a godly presence existing in some careful hole, in a place just out of Mephistophelian reach.
It was not so. It never would be so. God was a prop of mankind and nothing more. The bride’s eyes were all but black.
She abandoned herself to the serpentine attack, to the feverish, bodily sensation of being fucked. She felt them inside of her, filling her and engorging her as they had the word of God from their lady’s lips. She bled, from the sandpaper of knees, and from the soft pink of lips as she opened her throat to them. She was corroded from the inside as the poison spread through the isthmus of her veins and her eyes began to see all the hidden realities that lay overlapping the one at present, the corners of doors left open where here they were sealed. Her eyelids fluttered in a foreign revolt of lust, a heavenly revelation that uncoiled and urged her to move into the beasts, to fuck herself with them. To use them in truth.
Her moans, new and ruptured, frothed with agrapha. Blessed was she.
Perhaps she forget her vindictive sadism then, in the overwhelm of hedonism, hedonism, which, while selfish, required gratification, a body, drew toward others like a magnet to iron. The bride’s hand, the one with the indent left against bone on her third finger, strayed forward to grip the paragon of sin by the root of her black hair, to bleed her scalp with grimy little nails like knives; they yanked her ruthlessly closer.
The bride realized her mistake too late. By then, and it did not take long, her cries broke into ugly, rutting howls of sex caged in iron and her skin was damp against the fairy-light fabric of her dress. She shuddered, almost violently, gratifying herself on the woman and her pets. She wanted to touch her more, to feel her, to take her into her mouth and swallow her.
But she realized her mistake too late and with the blackburnt bottom of a bloody foot, she kicked her away.