Year of the Inner Goddess

March 2025

Despite the heaviness anchoring my limbs, Morpheus proved no match for the cruel summons of a more ancient mistress. I stirred from a shallow, fevered sleep, my lashes fluttering open beneath the ghostlight of my cell phone. Its sterile glow cast a bluish sheen across the sheets—cold, indifferent—marking the hour with grim finality: 2:30 a.m.

Curled in a fetal position, I lay with my spine to the slow, steady rise of Jack’s back. My knuckles pressed into the tender curve of my belly, seeking—hoping—to soothe the molten twist of pain that pulsed deep within. Mother Nature, so often a silent visitor, had arrived this time like a banshee—howling, raw, and relentless. I bit my lip to stifle a whimper, a hot prickle of tears threatening in the hush of Jack’s room.

Ninety minutes blurred into a private purgatory—tea sipped with trembling fingers, breath drawn in careful measures, heat pressed to flesh. But the agony danced on, gleeful and unrepentant. My body, traitorous and sovereign, refused the comfort of sleep. Yet beneath the ache, something darker stirred—a shimmer of want wrapped in exhaustion.

Desperation is an exquisite aphrodisiac.

With a sigh steeped in both guilt and delicious anticipation, my hand slipped beneath the blanket, fingers seeking the familiar silk-wrapped whisper of my hidden salvation. I rarely turned to it when indisposed—the pleasure too often a double-edged blade. But tonight, my skin thrummed with need. Not just for rest. No, I craved something deeper—something unholy and molten and mine.

The toy hummed to life in my hand like a secret lover returning from war—eager, obedient. As it touched the hooded pearl of my hunger, heat bloomed beneath my skin like honey set to boil. My thighs trembled. My breath hitched. Shadows behind my lids formed into decadent shapes—twisting and writhing in unspoken desecration.

Release found me swiftly, shuddering through me like a numinous collapse. I muffled my cry between pursed lips, hips arched, my breath slowly released in silent relief. When the spasms faded, I was left languid, limbs strewn like petals across the sheets, my skin dew-kissed and glistening ever so slightly in the dark.

I held a luxurious cloth to my pulsing pearl, cradling the jewel as if it were sin too sweet to regret.

But still, sleep denied me. Worse—my Inner Goddess awoke wild. Wings unfurling, prowling through my blood with unsated hunger. The ghost of climax had only whetted her appetite. She wanted worship. She wanted my undoing.

Jack had promised me a week of indulgence—silken ropes of desire spun in whispers and wicked touches. But the intimate inconvenience had come like a jailer, slamming shut the gates of pleasure before our hands could even wander over each other’s bodies.

When we first crawled into bed, shy and blushing, my fingers had slipped beneath the covers to cradle his exquisite length in my palm. It had stirred to life at my touch, silk and steel, rising as if summoned by the moon. But Jack, ever my patient lover, had asked for nothing. He’d pressed a kiss to my forehead and wrapped me in the steady thrum of his chest, lulling me to sleep, knowing our union would come soon enough. 

But now… now the stars above burned like voyeuristic gods. My apex ached. I felt empty. And within me, my Inner Goddess screamed. She did not care for timing or a vengeful womb. She cared only to soar among the heavens.

In the darkness, I worried my bottom lip, gnawing it with quiet desperation, each pull a plea for something I knew I could not yet have. To wake him now would be selfish—an indulgence in sin, wrapped in the smooth temptation of carnal bliss. Yes, but one I would surely pay for with cruel cramps and the bruised, aching aftermath of surrender.

And yet…

To lie here untouched, my body yearning and unsatisfied, while the fan above mocked me with its languid, ever-turning blades—it was a torment no woman should be asked to endure. The air, thick with heat and unmet longing, pressed against my skin, teasing and coaxing.

The mere thought of waiting, of enduring this restless emptiness, stirred my madness deep. It wasn’t just an ache—it was a hunger. And oh, how I longed to be consumed.

My Inner Goddess had had a rough month. An extended, accidental drought, where time had been devoured by duty and distraction. Meetings, homework, laundry folded, meals, and responsibilities—life’s small tyrannies. The carnal rites of ravishment had been pushed aside, left to wither like roses on a drought-starved vine. But as the stars twinkled ever brighter, my Inner Goddess rose from the depth of sleep—wild-eyed, ravenous, clawing down the walls of my restraint. She did not ask. She demanded.

And the question shimmered in the silence once more, hot and wicked: Did I wake him? Or did I smolder alone in the dark, wimpering and untouched?

My jaw ached with tension as I clenched it tight, my Inner Goddess twisting through me like a fever. And then I realized—my hand had already moved. Of its own accord, it had drifted beneath the sheets, cupping the sumptuous weight of him, his heat like a branding kiss against my palm. I exhaled sharply, barely daring to move, barely believing the sheer audacity of my Inner Goddess.

My thumb traced his crown with aching reverence. Not a stroke—no, that would be too coarse. This was worship. My fingers whispered down the length of him, mapping every curve, every pulse. He was alive beneath my touch, regal and rising, a monarch called to attention by a midnight priestess.

Jack’s breath remained slow, undisturbed… for now. He slept, a cathedral of calm, while I—his acolyte—trembled with lust. A low, unbidden sound escaped me. Jealousy curled its smoky fingers around my ribs: how dare he sleep when I suffered? But it melted just as quickly, replaced by the bloom of gratitude. Tucked beneath the sheets, he had held me, kissed my brow, offered peace and the promise of passion only momentarily delayed. When lost in pain, I’d been gifted comfort. 

But now… the ache had transformed. And beneath my touch, he stirred.

He swelled—divine and delicious. I added pressure, the barest pulse of rhythm to my strokes, and he responded with a soft growl, hips shifting, back straightening ever so slightly beneath the sheets. My Inner Goddess let out a purr, all teeth and satin. Mine, she whispered. All mine.

I rose from the bed like a ghost of heat and hunger, limbs draped in shadow. With the grace of a nocturne come to life, I straddled him, knees sinking into the mattress, hips hovering above his slumbering form. I told myself lies—soothing, ladylike lies.

“Only a kiss…” I murmured. “Only the warmth of naked flesh on naked flesh. I would not fully wake him.”

But the moment my slick heat brushed the head of the glory resting on his abdomen, all pretense shattered. The way he fit against me—perfectly, infuriatingly—made my whole body tremble with anticipation. This was no longer about relief. This was ritual.

From the nightstand, I plucked the vial—transparent as liquid diamonds. I poured the oil slowly, letting it trickle between my fingers before parting myself with a surrendering groan. The warmth met my wetness like candlelight meeting velvet. I anointed myself, coating every inch of him with glistening strokes, slow and thorough, my breath catching with every pass.

And then—I moved. Not downward. Not yet.

Instead, I circled my hips above him, dragging his lubricated tip across the pearl of my pleasure, over and over, until my thighs quaked. A cry caught in my throat—a whisper of a moan, dark and private. My Inner Goddess surged to the surface, eyes glowing, wings twitching, whispering promises in a voice only I could hear.

She lied, of course.

She said I wouldn’t take him. That I’d stop here—just this brush, just this tease, just this taste.

But she was already arching my spine, already rocking me forward. Jack groaned beneath me, his hands twitching in half-sleep, and I shivered with want.

He was my undoing. My ruin. My sacred fire.

And I would burn. Gladly.

And so it was, with the reckless tilt of my hips and a single, devastating swirl, I sank onto him—slowly, deeply—impaling myself upon his glorious length with a moan that tore free from my throat, raw and sinful, my soul lost in the throes of a forbidden prayer. The sound of his baritone, primal and thick with wonder, slashed through the dark like a cry from the depths of an ancient, forgotten temple.

He was awake now. And I? I was no longer a woman. I was a force—an earthquake, a tidal wave, a tempest that had come unbidden, wild and untamed, to ravish everything in her path. I was a succubus. A queen unseated by her own hunger and everything he would fall to his knees before.

There would be consequences. There always were. But for now—oh, for now—I would worship, rise and fall in reverent rhythm, each pass of my hips a supplication, an offering to the god whose touch unraveled me to my core. His chest heaved beneath me, his breath deepening in time with mine, but his hands—those hands—remained unshaken, gripping my waist. He was a man entirely at peace in the thundering chaos, a lover who had learned the sweet art of surrender. His whispered invocation, his immediate participation, sent tremors through me that no sound could replicate.

His gentleness was a seduction in itself. Every inch of him—pliant, warm, and maddeningly granite—drove my Inner Goddess deeper into a frenzy. The weight of his surrender, his yielding nature, gave rise to something insatiable within me. It was a yearning that could never be quieted, not now, not when he lay beneath me, willing to offer me the universe without demanding a single thing in return.

When the low, feral curse rumbled from his chest—a guttural benediction, raw and unfiltered—my hips stuttered, and my breath caught, breaking apart like a shattered glass. His words—ripped from some holy, forbidden place—lit a fire through me, drawing me forward like a moth to a flame. The sensation of him—inside me, holding me, possessing me—blended with the flutter of my own pulse, quickening with every rise and fall.

I moved with care, with deliberate slowness, tracing the edge of my own surrender. His steady warmth was a mark against my skin, a presence that threatened to swallow me whole. The room itself seemed to dissolve, the starlight turning everything silver and sharp, the shadows dancing in rhythm with us, teasing and beckoning.

My sapphire hair clung to my neck and shoulders like the brush of a lover’s hand. The soft curls swayed with every movement, tickling the tender skin of my back as I ground myself down into him, finding that hallowed friction that made me feel every inch, every contour of him within me as if my very bones could remember him forever. The slick heat between us burned with the force of alchemy, magic, lust.

My pearl—a delicate thing, thrumming with sensitivity—begged for more. I had already trespassed so far into this forbidden garden… what was one more stolen bloom, plucked with trembling, eager fingers?

And then, in an act of delicious defiance, I reached above his head, fingers curling around the waiting toy—the one still warm from my earlier indulgence. A wicked shiver trailed down my spine as I parted my thighs, sinking further onto his glorious length, my hips rising to meet him in an almost brutal rhythm. The openness of it all, the surrender of my body to him, made me feel both queen and courtesan—powerful yet undone. I arched back, offering myself to the shadows and the stars, a willing sacrifice to the god beneath me.

The toy awoke for a second time, its vibrations a sharp contrast to the heat between us. I pressed it firmly to my slick, swollen pearl, and the world shifted and dissolved. Every thought, every sensation, was reduced to the searing ache between my legs, to the tremors that raced through me with each maddening pass.

His hands—those broad, knowing hands—finally found me, a possessive reverence in every touch. He mapped my form like a man tracing the contours of an ancient relic—each touch of his fingers a homage, each stroke a command. He caressed my sides, my belly, my shoulders, and then, with a shift of power, he found my breasts—my soft, eager mountains —cupping them within the fullness of his palms as his thumb brushed back and forth over the peaks.

When his grip tightened, tugging gently, my breath buckled, a gasp slipping from my throat that was so sharp, so raw, it cleaved the silence in two. The room quivered with the intensity of it—his hands, his touch, the tight coil of pleasure unraveling deep inside me. His fingers were firm, insistent, coaxing every inch of me toward the edge. And I teetered there, just on the brink, caught between the wild desire of my body and the suffocating pressure of needing more.

Every thrust, every stroke, pulled me deeper into his spell. Every second spent lost in the abyss between us felt like an eternity of worship, of offering, of becoming one with him.

It was his body—his presence—that became the final offering. The heat of him beneath me, the enviable fullness of him within me, the friction and pressure and unbearable closeness—it unraveled me.

My climax came like a summer thunderstorm—thunderous, violent, and drenched in heat, devout in its ecstasy.

And afterward, I hung limp above him, trembling, flushed, utterly undone. The toy fell away from my grip, no longer needed.

Nevertheless, my body continued to shudder, legs shaking like a plea answered, steeped in the divine euphoria of my own womanhood. It was rapture, it was glory, and I reveled in every heartbeat of it.

He moved with tender reverence as he lifted me from his hips, easing me gently down onto the cool sheets below. I could barely make out the dark silhouette of his form in the dim light, the wide breadth of his shoulders rising like a tower above me, carved from shadow, a bastion figure forged in divine masculinity. The world around us seemed to recede as he loomed closer, the heat of his presence filling every inch of the room.

His hands parted my thighs, drawing me open to him, and with a primal instinct, my legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer, urging him deeper into me. There was desperation, a visible craving in the way my body sought him, drawing him as if the very act of connection would set fire to every aching inch of me.

My Inner Goddess quivered, feverish with anticipation, whispering only the language of the body—a language older than time. She beseeched him, craved him, needed him.

I welcomed him once more, my body cautiously embracing his slick granite hardness—his oiled length slipping past my own satin, inch by inch. There was a fleeting moment of tension—of morphing around him—but it was soon swallowed by the slow, glorious deep fit of or naked bodies. The feeling was intoxicating, almost obscene in its perfection. He began to move within me with such careful, deliberate strokes—as if he were both the artist and the masterpiece, molding me with every thrust.

And with each passing second, he grew. His magnificence swelled, pulsing and fueling the inferno between us. My fingers dug into the hard muscle of his arms, anchoring me as the waves of bliss crested and broke within me. He moved with a tactician’s precision, knowing exactly how to push me to the brink of madness.

Then, with a move both devastating and commanding, Jack slid one powerful arm beneath my left thigh, effortlessly hooking the angle of my knee in the crook of his elbow, exposing me to his full, exquisite torment. The angle—blasphemous in its beauty—opened my hips wide, offering me to him in the most sacred way, unlocking a hollow within me that only he knew. Only he had ever claimed it.

I felt a brief flicker of hesitation—my body instinctively tightening, concerned, no, fearful that it would be too much in my current delicate inconvience. But my body, it was ready—ripe with need, alive with the desire to be consumed. She was an offering, eager to be plucked, to be made his.

And then—then—he sank deeper, his colossus crown finding the secret haven—deep in that clandestine hollow, the one known only to him and christened in sin. The stars behind my eyelids exploded into galaxies, and for a moment, everything ceased to exist. We were no longer individuals—we were two forces colliding, bound by fate, wrapped in a blaze of divine ferocity.

With that decimating stroke, we sealed our doom. The very connection that bound us set our souls on alight. We were no longer ourselves; we were fevered creatures lost in the storm of our own making. Our bodies moved with abandon, grinding against the abyss, both drowning and baptized in the dark ocean. The room echoed with our guttural cries—savage and holy, so deep they felt as though they had been pulled from the earth itself.

A final thrust, a tremor of surrender, and we shattered, completely undone—brought to the point of no return and remade in the glittering aftermath of starlight. Gasping and panting for breath, our muscles weak but triumphant. Falling to the damp linens, our bodies lay entwined, chests heaving from exertion, trembling in the quiet aftermath. Both unable to speak. 

And then, just as the thick blanket of bliss threatened to claim me completely—my breath slowing, my lashes heavy with the weight of victory—the sharp, unforgiving blare of my alarm sliced through the haze of desire like a guillotine through inky shadows.

I gave a pitiful little groan, soft and broken, mourning the loss of something sacred. My limbs had finally begun to surrender to the leaden lull of sleep. I pouted, unmoving, glowing faintly, bathed in the ghost of his touch and the holy wreckage we had made of each other. At least, I thought drowsily, I wouldn’t have to contend with my fierce Inner Goddess again today.

Ah, but how naïve.

From the misty shadows behind my drooping eyes…she stirred.

Not content. Not sated. Not silent.

She reclined on her velvet chaise, long legs draped over the edge like temptation incarnate, stretching like a cat beneath my skin. Her presence throbbed with life and wicked salaciousness, her hunger no longer purring—it slithered and flicked her tongue, curling between the silence where heartbeats should be, tasting of perfume and power. 

Her voice, when it came, was the serpent’s caress—curling shivers down my arms and sliding secrets trailing down my spine.

“Sweet girl…” she murmured, smirking with impossible indulgence. “You think that was enough to satisfy me? You’ve only stoked the embers. I am awake now. And my fire has only begun to burn.”

And burn it did.

The ache surged anew—low and maddening, cruel in its persistence. My thighs shifted of their own volition, slick with remembrance. He had filled me, carved me, ruined me—and still it was not enough. Still, my body mourned the absence of his weight, the sacred pressure of his presence, the sanctified rhythm of our entanglement.

Sleep drifted further and further from reach, and responsibility loomed like a scold at the edge of the bed.

But her hunger would haunt me through every hour of daylight.

I had not quieted her.

I had awakened her.

And she would not sleep again until brilliant stars returned—when I might finally fall once more into the hands of the man who ruined me so reverently.

Until next time, XO. Elsie