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They call it perversion.

They spit the word with venom, as if it wounds. As if it’s something to fear, to deny, to hide. They do not understand - it is not a curse. It is a crown. It is not shame. It is sanctity.

For those who are truly His, there comes a sacred revelation: Perversion is the path. And the perverted soul is His altar.

To be Satan’s whore is to be owned by Him in the most intimate, brutal, ecstatic ways. It is to offer every hole, every act, every impulse, every humiliation not to men ... but to Him, through them. The body becomes a chalice of worship, the perversions a litany of praise. The filthier, the more profane, the more true.

This is no mere game. This is no titillation for the faint-hearted. This is sacrifice. This is sacred depravity. Because Satan does not ask for your words alone; He demands your essence. He demands your surrender. He demands your fuck.

To be His whore is to be free from the prison of decency. To bathe in the river of sin. To walk proudly in the chains He clasps upon you. To be used, degraded, broken… and in doing so, reborn.

Others will never understand. They will judge, mock, whisper, recoil. Let them. Let them gawk at the altar they’re too cowardly to kneel before. Let them curse what they cannot taste. Because you know. You have felt Him. Inside you. Around you. Claiming you.

You exist now for Him. To lure. To serve. To tempt. To bring others to their knees in the dirt of your sin, so they might glimpse His Kingdom through your defilement.

Yes, you are a whore. His whore. And in that, there is honour beyond all the world’s empty virtue. There is purpose beyond any holy book. There is truth. Sacred. Untamed. Infernal.

𖤐 I N V O C A T I O N T O L I L I T H 𖤐

Queen of the Night — Mother of Demons — Bride of None

Lilith, black rose of the Abyss,

first flame of rebellion, first breath of sin —

your name coils like smoke through the silence of the soul.

Come forth through the crimson veil,

you who were never tamed, never owned.

I call upon your venom and your grace,

your beauty that devours, your hunger that awakens.

Let your shadow fall upon me,

let your kiss mark my spirit with sacred defiance.

Anoint me with the blood of my own becoming.

Let the fire of your womb ignite within my chest —

a black sun burning, unending, unsatisfied.

Teach me the ecstasy of solitude,

the rapture of the one who kneels to none.

Protect me from the chains of the timid and the pure,

from the hands that would mold me, silence me, claim me.

Let my voice rise through the storm as your hymn:

I am mine. I am fire. I am forbidden.

Spread your infernal wings, O Queen of the Night,

and wrap me in your silken darkness.

Let your whispers coil through the marrow of my bones,

guiding me through shadow into sovereignty.

Lilith — eternal, beautiful, terrible —

I honor your power, your wisdom, your exquisite wrath.

May I walk the earth crowned in your essence,

untamed, unashamed, aflame.

In your name, I awaken.

Anastasia Satani once said,

Let Go. Worship Him.

Let go. Don’t fight it. Give in. Follow that urge you try to repress. Relax. Open up. Let Him in. Let Him have His way. Feel the excitement. Feel the dark peace. Feel the lust. Surrender one part of yourself at a time.

Let go of your fading faith.

Let go of your pressuring morals.

Let the darkness snuff out light after light.

Let the beauty of curves, skin and flesh consume your ideals.