Year of the Inner Goddess

June 2025

There was a time when I believed adulthood would dissolve into something tame, routine, safe. Predictable, even. I envisioned Saturdays scorched on soccer sidelines, stolen lunches laced with girlish laughter, and the occasional indulgent evening: libations fizzing, parlor games played until the stars winked out, friendships, sincere, but hovering on a surface level.

But nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for the exquisite salaciousness, the coveted obscenity, the utterly unrepentant joy of the life I now called my own.

Especially on this particular night. This unassuming Friday night.

Yes, there was dinner. Yes, there was repartee. We murmured of children, of weary commutes, and the tyranny of to-do lists. But beneath the gentle patter of conversation stirred something older than words, an undercurrent threaded with anticipation, scented with wine and something far more decadent. My gaze lingered above the rim of my glass, the crystal catching candlelight as I pressed my knees together, pulse fluttering like a moth against serica. Was it merely my imagination, or did I catch the flicker of flirtation weaving between the gathered Olympians, as they reclined with the ease of sovereigns and the glittering allure of myth?

Whether true perception or delicious delusion, I sensed the moment had ripened. With a glance and a whisper, I beckoned the goddesses to rise. Together, we slipped from the Great Room, our silken exodus trailed by mirth like honeyed smoke that clung like perfume and prophecy in the violet hush of dusk.

Before me, each goddess was adorned in gossamer lace, each hue a hymn to the private language of her soul. One shimmered in iridescent opal, her torso veiled in a vapor of dewspun clouds that vanished into a flirtatious thread drawn between moon-bathed thighs. Another glowed in onyx black, her silhouette a sonnet of shadows and seduction, the midnight of her bodice whispering secrets no daylight should ever hear. And the third, ah, the third, was a riot of color incarnate, her balconette stitched from the full, riotous spectrum, like ammolite conjured from the fever-dreams of peacocks and the blush of crushed damask roses. They lounged upon the plush mattress with the casualness of queens in their own courts, each a pantheon incarnate, each divinity momentarily distilled into mortal form.

And though I wore the mantle of hostess, I was no priestess, only a vessel draped in self-doubt, stricken with the same holy hesitancy that shimmered in their gaze. How could I reach for the divine? How dare I press frisson lips to their sacred skin, stealing kisses as if from the misted orchards of Eden itself? Yet, I melted with every brush of their perfect fingers.

It was the Ammolite Goddess who moved first.

With fingers soft as breath, she brushed a strand of hair from her cheek before caressing her hand down the length of my thigh, her touch light enough to make my pulse flutter. Her gaze searched mine, not for permission, but for surrender, and, finding no resistance, only a wide-eyed awe, she sank gracefully to her knees. Her palms urged me to recline, her movements a liturgy of seduction, her mouth a chalice pressed reverently between my thighs. She parted me with the delicacy of a petal beneath moonlight, her tongue tracing secrets into my flesh until the first gasp spilled unbidden from my lips, helpless.

The Opal Goddess followed, impishness gleaming like candlelight in her eyes. On my left, she pressed kisses to the slope of my shoulder, sweet as honey and just as decadent. Her hands were deliberate, raking the elegant column of my throat, the wing of my collarbone, the crest and bloom of each breast, coaxing them into aching peaks beneath the drag of her wicked nails. My knees softened. My core clenched. My voice caught in my throat like a prayer half-spoken, half-damned.

And then came the Onyx Goddess.

In her hand, she held a wand adorned with feathers as dark as the far side of the moon. With the knowing smirk of a siren, she began her ritual. Each plume traced its mercerized path along the tender seam of my inner thighs, the hollow of my hip, the aching tips of my breasts, until my spine arched and a sacred whimper slipped from behind my bitten lip.

It was a tableau of exquisite abandon, a Renaissance painting undone by breath and heat, its once-still figures flushed with yearning and motion. And I, undulating at the center, offered my body like an altar.

I shattered, rippling beneath their hands and mouths, my screams buried in the twist of fine linens I clutched to my lips. The Ammolite Goddess worked me with divine precision, her fingers, her tongue, each motion a hymn of possession. The Opal Goddess joined her at my apex, her slick touch circling my pearl with oil-slicked fervor, fingers slapping and dancing in concert with the relentless ministrations of her sister goddess, claiming each cry, coaxing every broken syllable of surrender.

I ought to have felt shame, ought to have flushed beneath their unwavering attention, the weight of three goddesses devoted to my undoing, but I could form no coherent thought. No protest. No plea. Only a body, vulnerable and convulsing, an offering for divine feminine delight.

And still… from the other room, the three stalwart gods lingered.

Occasionally, they peeked in with amused, almost bashful grins, their bodies leaning around the threshold like schoolboys caught spying on angels. We coaxed them with glances and moans too exaggerated to be genuine, yet somehow more sincere for their playfulness. They bantered, joked, eyes riveted to the darting figures on ice locked in the black frame before them. Nevertheless, the gods remained reluctant to breach the sublime feminine rite unfolding in the adjacent boudoir.

We teased them mercilessly. “Do the gods desire only each other, then?” we purred, peals of laughter unfurling like opulent ribbons swirling in rosewater, as we snickered behind delicate hands at the deliciously scandalous suggestion. My very toes curled, and my Inner Goddess unfurled her great wings in delight. The gods protested vehemently, denying with fervor, but made no move to enter.

Until, at last, we summoned them by name.

They moved with the quiet assurance of men honed by discipline and will, compact, lithe, every motion measured and deliberate. Their gazes swept the room with keen appreciation, eyes reflecting a slow-burning fire beneath calm exteriors. There was no haste, only the patient gravity of inevitability. Yet, as they crossed the threshold, the air shifted, taut and electric, and everything changed.

Jack’s mouth claimed mine with the ruthless ardor of a soldier returning from war. I gave no answer but the yielding of my lips, the arch of my back, the tremor in my parted thighs. When he turned me, seizing me from behind, his hands, immense, possessive, spanned my hips like shackles forged in some darker heaven. My legs opened at his command, aching anticipation, and my fingers held the covers in white knuckled preparation as I angled over the mattress. I gasped, spine bowing, as my skin sang with the lingering touch of goddesses whose devotion had left me slick and open, trembling at the edge of something exquisite.

Beside me, a goddess let out a velvet giggle, pure beguilement dressed in gossamer webbing. But her rhythm didn’t waver. Her fingers moved with expert precision, her palm wrapped around the god she had coaxed to the edge of the bed. Her lips slid over him like molten wine, her eyes rising to meet his with all the knowing boldness of a goddess who has never had to ask for permission but did just to hear the jagged, “yes” in response.

The god growled low, his hands knotting in the sheets, his jaw tight with the effort not to fall apart too soon. She rewarded his restraint with a pleased hum, the sound rippling through him like silver fire flickering along a drawn bowstring.

Around us, the air thrummed with heat and movement. Flesh met flesh in waves of sighs and gasps, of breath caught and spilled. Another god sat at the edge of the bed, his magnificence still glistening from a goddess’s mouth. I sank to my knees before him, his fingers weaving into my hair with a reverent roughness. I opened for him eagerly, lips parting, my throat working to accommodate him, this Olympian effigy of desire, my throat and all that I was wrapped in the struggle to take all of him.

Through the haze of heat, I caught sight of her, another goddess kneeling opposite, her mouth full of her own chosen god, her cheeks bulging as she worked him with a fervor that made my thighs clench. Our gazes locked, twin wicked grins blooming as levity threatened to rise. We were creatures of want and delight, mirrored in our decadence, twin flames stoking the same delicious blaze.

The rhythm built, like a tide drawn by twin moons, like thunder rolling over marble peaks. One god bent me over his lap, driving into me with the controlled violence of a storm harnessed, each thrust a pounding echo that made my vision stutter. His fingers, merciless, glorious, plunged into me, coaxing out broken cries, my hands clutching the bedding as if to anchor myself to this moment, to this raw, endless need.

Around us, bodies danced and tangled, revelry threading through the moans like gold through brocade. We weren’t just flesh, we were myth in motion. Volcanic, ungoverned, alive.

The goddesses were resplendent in their glory, each movement a sonnet, each sound an invocation. Their fingers slipped through tousled hair, tangling with reverent hunger, while the mouths of gods worshipped hipbones and thighs, seeking the nectar glimmering at each goddess’s sacred apex. One god knelt between a goddess’ legs, devouring her pleasure with a devotion that bordered on madness, his tongue and fingers coaxing her toward the exquisite brink, until her knees buckled, and her cry turned the very air to flame.

And I, 

I was undone. Split wide open, heart and body and soul, every edge of me unraveling beneath hands I adored.

My body sang in three dialects of ecstasy, the slick glide, the exquisite stretch, the thunderous thrust of a god at war. A sharp sting bloomed across my buttocks, hips, and thighs as the Opal Goddess sank her teeth into my skin, each bite a jeweled star pressed into tender velvet. She mapped constellations along me with her mouth, as if charting the sky not in stars but in moans, in shivers, in the sacred ache of surrender.

And through it all, I whispered inward, seeking her, my Inner Goddess, pleading through ragged gasps, “Is this all right? Do you want more? Are you still with me?”

And her answers came, breathless and unashamed: “Yes. Yes. Please… yes.”

When climax took me for the umpteenth time, it tore through my being like a comet dragged from the heavens, violent, unrepentant. Precariously balanced on all fours, the lightning of release shattered through me as though hurled by Zeus himself. The god behind me did not yield, did not soften, his hands gripped my hips like a decree, and the tremor overtook me. A full-body quake that left me aching, marked, gloriously hollowed and remade in the same instant.

My thighs trembled. My lips were kiss-bruised. And I,
I could not, would not, stop smiling.

This was no careless orgy of nameless strangers.
This was sacred, euphoric chaos, shared among gods and goddesses who adored one another enough to undress not only their bodies, but their pride, their shame, their very myths.

And as I lay there, cheek cradled against a goddess’s thigh, a god’s hand trailing idle reverence along my calf, our breath descending from its divine crescendo, I thought:
This is the tale no mortal would dare believe.
And I?
I no longer cared.

Because some magic isn’t meant to be explained.
Some nights are not meant to be named.
And some pleasures?
Some pleasures are meant only to be lived.

The room pulsed with a quiet, satiated joy.

Words curled lazily in the air like incense, our conversation drifting from starlight to scandal, from light philosophy to playful jests. With unthinking grace, our limbs tangled and our hearts reclined unguarded on the rumpled bed. I found myself marveling at how the candlelight kissed their bare skin, how their eyes still glowed with mischief and wonder.

I wanted to press this moment into the secret hollows of my memory, sear it into the sacred vellum of my soul, that I might never forget how it felt to be adored by gods, known by goddesses, and utterly, to be incandescently alive.

Unknowing, unintentionally, we had become a constellation, bodies caught in sacred orbit.
Mouths, tongues, fingers: the divine ache of surrender, the sweet gravity of longing met.

Later, tangled in the cool hush of clean sheets, Jack’s assuring breath against the nape of my neck, I almost wondered if I’d dreamed it all.

But the molten ache between my thighs, the constellation of bite-marks blooming along my skin, and the smug purr of my Inner Goddess told me otherwise.

This wasn’t fantasy. It wasn’t a myth or metaphor.

It was my life.

And to think…

In this audacious, ridiculous life where I wake aching, marked, and pleasure is etched into my bones like a psalm written in heat and salt and sighs…

It was “just” another Friday night.

Until next time, XO. Elsie