The night holds a special kind of silence, one that invites reflection. Luna and I were discussing a curious aspect of our longevity: the sheer number of mortal lovers we've taken over the centuries. Not their names or titles, but the sensations. I confessed a particular, undignified craving for the raw, guttural moment a man loses all control, when his composure shatters and he just fucks, his cock pounding into my cunt with a pure, animalistic need to claim and fill a goddess. Luna, ever the observer, finds her pleasure in the details I overlook: the specific tremor in a man's thighs before he comes, the exact sound a woman makes when Luna's tongue first finds her clit, the way a well-fucked ass looks when it's still glistening and red. It's a marvel, really—we command the sun and moon, yet we are both, in our own ways, students of the exquisite vulgarity of mortal pleasure.