Gingerly, I removed the bandage and exposed the puckered flesh beneath. It hadn’t been long enough to heal, and in fact, Asmodeus’ forked tongue had pried the cut open even deeper than I had first made it. What if it made it larger? What if it used that wound to pleasure itself? Made it stigmata, made you holy with every thrust until you were stretched in the form of crucifixion, until you could look at your reflection in its black eyes and see the Son of God looking back? Desire felt complicated.
