Shytan the Nymphet

The light-less space overcomes senses, defeats, and pulls into its sheer hallow-ness. It breathes against skin, terrifying, tantalizing, the birth of death and sex and horror.

Its name is its all and nothing less, nothing more, nothingness. In the palm of pale hands, loving whispers a name across time’s boundless chiseled face.

The sound abounds and falls deeper into the chasm, calls unheard and uninterrupted by mortal things.

Shaytan or Satan is not the name, but it was the name of the darkness, and it was the same.

Here, there is no earth for to lie upon smooth, pretty feet. The sky does not fall with its celestial grace and the air does not caress porcelain skin.

This is oblivion, skyless and earthless.

Oh, what secrets could be shared with those mortals so disdained, but here there are no secrets, only truth, and this truth reveals the spirit, and the oblivion rapes it, wholly and thoroughly.

Taking it down into the darkness, and ripping what vestiges of morality and mortality remained within the failures of truth.

The magnetic pull of painful desire rakes its libido across the delicate and fragile nirvana, and this is more than even one called Shaytan can take as it does pull and tear and rip and scream.

The perverse coition brings water to blind eyes, and the embodiment throws against the carnal and bestial thrashing. Screams and cries come out again and again, but always for more and never for less.

The ancient Greek gods would have called her a nymphet, and in times long since dead she would have been hailed as Aphrodite, her skin so smooth and her features so perfect, her hair flowing like waterfalls of blonde silk.