After the cane leaves six long weals across
your ass I ask you to put on the mask.
It is alien in design — chaos
carved from fossil wood. Rarely do I ask.
Rarely do you say no. Kneel down, a storm
brews and I force your jaws open. Your bones
hold the stones in place. Grinding I transform
your throat into ruin, all which cyclones
leave in their wake. Through the eye-holes you blink,
then grin, spitting up goopy cum. Hecate
wore this mask once. Necromancy still runs
in us since sex magic remains a kink —
one with art and lore that we still translate.
Our lust has roots with the Greeks and Romans.