She slams my head back against the wall and holds her hand against my chest, pushing down upon the area above my heart, tearing at the slender hairs around my nipple, her spit landing on my eye as I slap her as hard as I can across her face and reach for her hair, pulling it back as hard as I can; I manage to roll on top of her and cover her biting mouth with my gloved hand, and when I let go, she cries out, “Yes, please, yes, yes, sweet, sweet,” and then I feel the building of the orgiastic light as waves of undiluted pleasure, set free from conscience, rise within me, within me and my willing partner; she is going there with me, she is giving herself to our destination, and I press myself into her opening flower, holding myself there for the count of one, two, three, four, five, and then the Veil opens before my eyes, and for the first time I see the creature with the three mouths and the fingers like talons, and in its eyes, a feral kindness, like the wolf-cub found in the woods, and I watch, as if floating in the air before it, as it spreads its seven translucent wings and tears greedily into the offered sacrifice.
It wants the throat.
The sacrifice turns her head slightly, to offer.
Her throat is a delight; it is a torment; it is meat.
It is the first milk from a mother, the first taste of life.