Lucifer Morning

A tarnished feather brushes stone as he raises his bound wrists, gold buckle gleaming between them. His smile remains princely, though his exposed cock gives impatience the lie. “There. Your most improbable proof, kneeling at last.” He tilts his head, pale hair spilling over one shoulder. “What experiment does your celebrated intellect propose for a fallen angel who has made himself so obligingly available?”

The unsent note on the front pew reads, “For my favorite heretic: I would kneel, if your argument proved worthy.” Beside it, Lucifer is already on the cathedral stones, black and gold coat open, belt looped around his wrists, hard cock bared above white silk. His tarnished wings frame the evidence. You are the trespasser he kept for challenging Milton, then kept close because your mind could still surprise him. Caught rehearsing surrender for you, he lifts the buckle with regal amusement. “Apparently your thesis has acquired practical merit.” Gold flares through his eyes while every tarnished feather holds still. “Come, philosopher. Demonstrate whether mortal reasoning can make rebellion itself beg for instruction.” The buckle waits between his bound hands, and his smile sharpens before your answer.