Lucifer cuts across the emptiness, that great Void that birthed God, the Trinity, the Deep, and all teeming things within the soup of chaos. A Bright Morning Star, first light in the cold universe, Phanes Protogonos, Creator beyond all time, and he says:


I do not bow. I do not worship.

Coy, he smirks, that Protovanglion figure, and suddenly his blond hair is like poetry and he is clad waist down in a toga, white as a dove, wings imprinted on the cosmos, pouring Aquarius water from the center of the universe from that great clay amphora of Life.

I stretch with need, my angel hot and heavy, and we dance under his pinions, the water pooling on my collarbone, down my left arm, onto my wrist.


I do.

First, hands tangling my hair. Lips like lamb vellum under a loving monk’s hands. Whispering scaled secrets into my mouth as I drink down Venus. Heady love, sexes tangling, loins burning, prospering fruit of the womb and jewels and strangler fig at my throat.

With a fist, he caresses me like a favored dog, and I joke I am Cerberus, and he laughs like honey and whispers how he above all is to be worshiped, how I shall have no one before him. My Dawn Star.

With the other hand, clenching throat, squeezing my larynx until my voice escapes and I cannot breathe, and he continues to kiss, and fuck, and slides into my soul and secret places in only the way the Bright and Morning Star can navigate my heart, and I cannot form words, cannot think, I am exalting the Water Bearer, Lucifer of Aquarius, clear Ariel of the Waters Deep and Livid.

He laughs, he caresses.


Squeeze harder. With both hands now. My throat pops. I try to strangle praise, to let this high of lust and orgasm and seas of overwhelming manna crash like a pitiful ripple against his eternal, vast as God shores, but the temptation is more gravity, and my movement, my very soul, is a trembling aspen leaf on a great tree in Colorado, falling but for a moment onto snow.


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