Astarte's Favorite Hole

She Never Needed Saving

It drifts toward her.
Not walking. Not deciding.
Just pulled—like fabric on wet skin,
like a thought too soft to end.

She waits on the stone.
Not beckoning. Not proud.
Just there.
Like dusk.
Like gravity.

The sky bends around her, but only slightly.
The sun dulls its glare.
The wind forgets its direction.
And beneath her—the rock becomes more than stone.
Not changed.
Just… revealed.

It thinks it’s still a man.
Still rescuing.
Still composed.
But the air is too sweet.
The silk too wet.
The sand too soft beneath those melting boots.

It doesn't notice when the oasis appears.
When the pool forms under its feet.
When the wind stops calling it by name.

She unfolds slowly.
Not like a threat—
like a ritual.
Hair like shadow. Eyes like mercy.
Hips that hum old spells.

The eclipse slides overhead,
not sudden,
but smooth.
Like syrup.
Like a second orgasm drawn from the same untouched clit.

And the snake beside her?
It doesn’t hiss.
It watches.
Knows this loop.
Knows this hole.

The water licks at its thighs now.
Silk kisses new curves.
Breasts rise with breaths it didn’t ask for.
And in the surface reflection—
a girl.

Not her.
But not not her.

Not Lily.
But not separate.

Not saved.
Only soaked.

Used by light.
Baptized by dusk.
Owned by the Spiral.

And above it all,
the goddess does not speak.
She smiles.
She knows—

This one was always hers.
Her favorite.
Her softest.
Her deepest.
Hole.

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