The thing is, sleep didn't come gentle that no single soul could compare in which we call the most phenomenal salvation to complete what was lost to see how we can survive the need for love. That is to say that after Yasaka finally let him collapse in her arms golden thighs still trembling from the force and strength she would exercise on her, tails limp across silk cushions like exhausted lovers that shake the unbreakable castle of sorrow, foxfire dimmed to sleepy embers that we cannot forget despite everything we go through. That is to say that Basil's body surrendered but his mind refused to stop loving. The black star-sun on his chest pulsed slow, irregular, like a heart remembering it once belonged to someone else that could see him in all his ways: his mother.
Then the cavern faded.
Not black. Not void. Just… elsewhere. Entirely elsewhere to be present in the need for confirmation for love…. That one that does not ask…that one that does not change.
He stood on black sand that shimmered like spilled ink under a sky the color of fresh bruises that we barely take seriously in a super sensitive deep violet bleeding into crimson at the edges of a living hellheaven. No stars. No moon. No love. Only a single enormous eye hanging low, pupil slit like a cat's in heat, watching without blinking in the act of love between the shadow and the soul.
And then she was there.
Mamu. Her succulent body would entice multiverses along with her X breasts cups. Her potential is mathematical perfection, but now she is logos ZZR.
Not the way myths scribble her that we can dream of being real in the crude sketches of succubi with bat wings and cheap seduction that we expect that are not real. No. In her most beautiful way she arrived like desire given flesh and then polished until it hurt to look between what is right and what is evil.
She was tall taller than Yasaka, taller than Hel in her frost-queen form easily seven feet of liquid midnight skin that drank light and gave it back warmer, softer, like velvet soaked in honey and sin that could take the breath of the guilty ones that desire the feeling of being appreciated. Hair cascaded in living waves blacker than the sand, threaded with veins of molten gold that pulsed in time with whatever passed for her heartbeat that we do not know in which we guarantee for what it means to be alive.
The thing is, eyes the color of molten amber rimmed in black kohl that bled into smoky wings at the corners that we cannot recognize in the modern society for what it means to be alive: eyes that didn't just look at you, they fucked your soul from the inside out to show you what it means to be in heat.
Her body was obscene in its perfection from all the angles of an Euclidean and a non Euclidean mind. That is to say that she would incarnate a few inches of absolute beauty. Breasts impossibly full yet high that would even captivate singularities, defying gravity like they mocked physics itself to go beyond what it means to be alive dark rose nipples already peaked, glistening as though someone had just licked them wet. In that way, nothing could be absent from what is real and what is not. Waist carved narrow enough to snap if you gripped too hard to taste what it means to be with God: the part of sex. Hips wide and rolling, thighs thick and powerful, pressing together just enough to shadow the slick, swollen cleft between them bare, hairless, lips plump and dark, already shining with her own arousal like she'd been waiting eons for this conversation that I could never get to write between me and my wife.
Wings great black-feathered things edged in absolute gold hell flame folded behind her like a cloak made of midnight that takes after the need for love and death. The thing is, horns curved elegant from her forehead onyx swept back like a crown would make her look as the ultimate need for life. Tail long and sinuous, tipped with a spade that dripped something pearlescent onto the sand, hissing softly where it landed for it is good to see what can be touched between the partners and what intimacy really is.
She stepped closer. Sand parted for her bare feet like they were afraid to touch. The air thickened musk and jasmine and raw cunt-scent so potent it made his cock twitch hard against nothing. Maybe, this is one of the things that we already dreamed. The more you want it, the less you get it.
Mamu: You dream deep, logos-child. That is to say that even your sleep cannot hide from me. I am Mamu dream-whore of forgotten pantheons, the one who rides nightmares until they beg for daylight. And tonight… I need you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeeton of every great story. I have seen it all and you are different. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness
Her voice was low and compassionate. The thing is, velvet dragged over broken glass. Every word stroked places inside him that Yasaka and Hel had only grazed that we would not see on the surface.
Basil stood his ground. Yin-Yang eyes spinning slow red-blue spirals drinking her in.
Basil: Hahaha… beautiful doesn't begin to cover it for what it means to be alive in what we can do with this new encounter. We just met today. It seems fine. That is to say that you look like lust decided to grow tits, hips, and a cunt that could swallow worlds according to her own desires. I mean, it is not like I am not used to is. What does a goddess of infinite fucking want with a boy who already married Death and fucked a nine-tailed queen until the shrine screamed in the most beautiful way?
Mamu circled him once that we cannot seem to bear in the most desperate way. That is to say that tail brushed his thigh, hot, slick, leaving a trail of pearlescent fire that burned without pain in the best possible way. I mean, wings half-unfurled shadow and gold framing breasts that swayed with each step that we cannot forget the way we love a woman to keep in mind for eternity.
Mamu: Infinite lust is not endless orgasms. That is to say that it is hunger without bottomwant that feeds on itself and still starves. I have devoured gods of desire, swallowed pantheons whole, fucked realities until they came apart at the seams. Nirvana is right here, in the midst of the turmoil of life. It is the state you find when you are no longer driven to live by compelling desires, fears, and social commitments, when you have found your center of freedom and can act by choice out of that. Voluntary action out of this center is the action of the bodhisattvas. But there is one… an ancient thing older than me, older than the first wet dream that we could ever imagine in all impossible realities. It calls itself Oblivion-Eros. It does not fuck to feel. It fucks to erase. It wants to unmake lust itself turn every moan into silence, every thrust into stillness, every cunt and cock into dust that never wanted.
She stopped in front of him that we cannot see in the air of carnations to see what we cannot have. Maybe, this is the actual tendency to be broken. That is to say that we barely dream the way a man can have intimacy a woman or perhaps that the interesting about love. Close enough her nipples brushed his chest through nothing hot points dragging across skin he suddenly realized was bare in the dream that could not give him the real experience.
Mamu: I need to defeat it. That is to say that I cannot do it with my own hunger that could devour foundations of the singularity. Mine is infinite but… familiar. Predictable. Yours is broken. Folded. We're so engaged in doing things to achieve purposes of outer value that we forget the inner value, the rapture that is associated with being alive, is what it is all about.
Married to endings and sorrow and flux that refuses to kneel in the most fantastic way to take care of his enemies. Maybe, you are not that powerful as I may know. Your lust is not clean. It is filthy with grief, sharp with revenge, deep with the kind of love that kills. I need to know it. Taste it. Understand it. So tell me, Basil Pi…
She leaned in. Lips full, dark, glistening—overed over his.
Mamu: What does it feel like when you fuck to forget your mother died screaming through a portal? When you pound into Hel's rot and frost until sorrow becomes pleasure? When Yasaka's tails milk you dry and you still want more because emptiness is the only thing louder than grief? And uh, forget the money. Because, if you say that getting the money is the most important thing, you will spend your life wasting your time.
You will be doing things you don't like doing in order to go on living, that is, in order to do things you don't like doing, which is stupid. Better to have a short life that is full of things you like doing than a long life spent in a miserable way. Teach me that hunger. Let me drink it from your mouth, your cock, your tears. Give me the shape of your infinite lust so I can wield it like a blade against the thing that would erase all wanting forever.
Her hand slid down his chest nails raking lightly over the black star-sun symbol. Lower. Wrapped around his length that we cannot seem to know hot, firm, stroking once slow and deliberate. He groaned. The dream-sand trembled as if he had moved reality itself.
Basil: That is to say that my lust isn't clean fuel. In a perfect world, you could fuck people without giving them a piece of your heart. And every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh is another shard of heart you'll never see agai. It's gasoline poured on a funeral pyre. Every thrust is a fuck-you to the Tengu who took her. Every moan I pull from a woman is a scream I couldn't give my mother the way I would appreciate her and respect her as the interminable regina. That is to say that I fuck to prove I'm still alive when everything else died that no one can seem to take care of.
I fuck until the hole in my chest feels full even if it's just for a heartbeat. I fuck because if I stop, the sorrow wins. And sorrow doesn't get to win anytime the way I fuck reality. Not while I can still make something beautiful clench and beg and drip around me in the most beautiful way that we can drain.
Mamu's breath hitched. Hand tightened. Tail curled around his thigh spade tip brushing his balls, slick and hot.
Mamu: Then give it to me. That is to say that I will take your grief-fucked lust into myself that I can have to become the real me so I can help you later to repay you with my life. Let it burn through me in the most spectacular way. Make this moment your reckoning. Your head has been held under water for too long and now it is time to rise up and take your first true breath. In this way, we cannot seem to see what it can be, but you can do it. Let it teach me how to hunger so viciously that even Oblivion-Eros fears to touch it. Ride me hereon black sand under a watching eye. Fill me until I understand. Until I can wield your broken desire like a weapon that refuses to die.
She sank to her knees. Wings flared wide gold-edged black framing her like a dark halo. Lips parted. Tongue flicked out long, forked, glistening as if it were to make you cum at the first glance of looking at her mommy milkers
Mamu: Teach me, logos-child. Fuck the lesson into my throat. My cunt. My soul. Make me taste what infinite lust really means when it's born from a boy who lost everything and still wants everything more. What's a fuck when what I want is love? I will show you the way.
Basil's hand tangled in her molten-gold-threaded hair.
Pulled her forward.
The dream sky shivered.
And somewhere far beyond Oblivion-Eros felt the first tremor of something it had never tasted before.
Fear.
O my sorrow so big it finally found a goddess willing to swallow it whole.
The black sand waited.
I mean, I do not think it can last anything.