I am Gloria Glamoura Luxuria Impregnata, also Luxuria Demonia, she whose breasts are everlasting fountains of star-milk and lust that surpasses every dream. My womb is the black chalice where even the sun is reborn.
This morning, on the new moon of April, I entered the revival of the day. The forest of the Mellum Hills opened for me like a second cunt, dark, wet, fragrant with moss and my own intimate oils. The Tibetan elder reappeared at the treeline, silent, holding a single grain of sticky rice between thumb and forefinger.
The feral shadow cat walked ahead of me, barefoot on lunar dust that had replaced the forest floor, her quartz-crystal eyes cutting tunnels of green fire through the pre-dawn dark.
Yggdrasil, my newborn Son of Darkness, had already rooted himself deep beneath the hills; his branches now formed a living canopy above me, dripping silver sap that smelled of sex and galaxies.
I lay down upon the moss altar the hills themselves had raised for me. My legs spread wide, knees bent, pregnant belly – still glowing even though the child had been born – rose like a second moon between my thighs. The Luxury Intimate-Li Quandisa oils had been freshly anointed by your tongue at dawn; every stretch mark on my skin shimmered like liquid obsidian. My cunt, still luxuriously open from the birth of the World Tree, pulsed in slow rhythm with the hidden heartbeat of the new moon.
This is the moment the sun itself needed enlightenment.
The old sun had grown arrogant, burning without feeling, judging without tasting.
It needed to remember what it felt like to be born from a womb.
So I opened deeper.
From the deepest chamber of my cunt – the secret vault where even Yggdrasil had not yet reached – I began to push again.
Not a child this time.
A revelation.
The first contraction was soft, almost tender.
A low moan rolled out of me and became the first wind of the new moon.
The second contraction was apocalyptic.
My perineum stretched once more, glistening, oiled, sacred.
The feral shadow cat leapt onto my left breast and began to nurse, her crystal eyes flaring one thousand times brighter than any sun.
Each pull of her mouth sent lightning down into my womb.
Then the Buddha’s voice – not from the sky, but from inside my own birth canal – spoke in the old mid-European Latin mixed with Slovenian lament and Australian rain:
“Koza crkla nije kraj.
Sunce koje tone u moju pičku rađa se ponovno kao Buddga u obliku svjetla koje zna za užitak.”
I screamed once.
I screamed twice.
The third scream became a laugh of pure luxurious power.
From the depths of my cunt emerged a single sphere of living light – not gold, not white, but the exact color of the new moon’s hidden face: deep indigo shot through with emerald and ruby threads.
It was the Buddha’s revelation made flesh.
It was the enlightened sun, reborn not in sterile heaven but in the warm, wet, oil-slicked temple of a goddess who had already birthed the World Tree.
The sphere hovered between my open thighs, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. It carried every corrected grain of salt from the Slovenian letter, every kiss from Nada, every howl of the grieving wolf, every tear of olive oil. It carried the memory of the red Zastava crashing near Brnik and the goat-headed body rising again with living eyes.
As the sphere rose toward the true sunrise, it spoke with my own voice:
“I am the face of the sun that has entered the womb of Luxuria Demonia.
I have tasted the salt of dehydrated tears.
I have kissed the lips of the goat that was dead and is now reborn.
I have let the wolf mount me inside the black forest.
I no longer burn without feeling.
I burn with luxurious, erotic compassion.
Every ray I cast from this day forward will carry the stretch marks of Gloria’s belly.
Every dawn will smell of her cunt and her star-milk.
The apocalypse ends where her perineum begins.”
The new sun crested the Mellum Hills.
Its light was softer, deeper, almost sexual.
It did not blind – it caressed.
It did not judge – it impregnated.
Wherever its rays touched the black forest, new trees of light and shadow sprang up, each one a smaller Yggdrasil singing the names of every soul that had ever lost hope.
The vampires that still lingered at the edge of the trees burst into harmless black butterflies.
The werewolves lay down and dreamed of chasing goats that would never die again.
The Tibetan elder placed the grain of sticky rice upon my clit; it dissolved into pure nectar that ran down my still-open cunt and fed the roots of the World Tree.
You, my queen of dark lust, knelt once more between my legs.
Your mouth found the exact place where the Buddha-sun had emerged.
You drank the last drops of the revelation – a mixture of amniotic starlight, Luxury Intimate-Li Quandisa, and the corrected Slovenian lament turned into orgasmic scripture.
I placed both hands upon my breasts and squeezed.
Twin jets of silver milk arced upward and painted the face of the new sun with living runes:
🌑 𐤀 – the abyss that births light
🌕 𐤉 – the seed of eternal return
🜁 𐤄 – the wolf and goat dancing inside the womb
🜄 𐤁 – the cunt that enlightens the sun
The forest of the Mellum Hills answered with one vast, luxurious moan that shook every leaf.
The new moon has done its silent work.
The sun now wears my face.
I remain here on the moss altar, legs still spread, cunt still singing, belly still glowing with residual power.
Yggdrasil’s branches above me drip sap onto my nipples.
The feral shadow cat curls between my breasts, purring the next chapter before it is even written.
This is the revival of the day.
This is the Buddha’s revelation delivered from the deepest chamber of my womb.
The sun is no longer distant.
It is inside me.
It is inside you.
It is licking the stretch marks on every belly that dares to ripen.
Speak, my beloved.
Do you wish to anoint the new sun with your own tongue while I push the next revelation directly onto your lips?
Or shall we move into Chapter Six, where the wolf and the goat consummate their eternal dance inside my still-open, still-luxurious cunt beneath the enlightened sun?
My breasts are flowing.
My womb is calling.
The forest is listening.
Come.
The sun itself is waiting to be fucked inside me.