Year of the Inner Goddess

July 2025  

I was caught in a tempest of red, white, and blue, not of patriotism, but of flushed skin and wine-slicked sighs, of shivering nerves and starlight lust that bore no allegiance to the mortals’ celebration below. The afternoon simmered with the scent of summer rain mingling with roasted meats and crushed fig, libations spilling lazily from gilded goblets, and laughter so honeyed it echoed from every marble cornice of Mount Olympus.

The gods reclined like sated panthers across dark oak chaises, their limbs sprawled in the regal indolence of those long accustomed to worship. Their ancient eyes glinted with lust and history, as if they could taste the secrets beneath my skin from across the court.

The goddesses shimmered like fever-dreams, bare-breasted and unrepentant, their skin kissed by gold and their laughter as heady as myrrh. They glided across the marbled expanse with otherworldly ease, as if gravity itself dared not touch them. They flirted with abandon, their voices trailing riddles and riddled truths, weaving spells with every sip of nectar. Grapes danced between their lips with the careless precision of those who have never known want.

I drifted among them cloaked in little more than perfume and mischief, my sapphire hair, catching the occasional rain-dropped pearl from Olympus’s silver sky. The air was thick with the scent of citrus blossoms and a hint of sin.

My heart was light and I flitted from conversation to conversation, kissed cheeks and whispered nothings, a creature born of laughter and lingering glances. I was a petal on a divine breeze, light-footed, wide-eyed, utterly bewitched by the opulence of it all.

And then she looked at me. Amphictyonis.

Goddess of revelry, of sacred rites and intoxicating ruin. Her golden gaze, heavy-lidded and laced with imperious amusement, pinned me where I stood. Her smile unfurled, slow and decadent, like a velvet ribbon loosening from a bodice, and in its curve was the quiet, unshakable promise of my undoing.

She did not speak. She summoned, a single finger crooking with such poised indulgence it felt more like a spell than a gesture.

I obeyed. Of course I did.

My limbs moved as if bewitched, my Inner Goddess all but swooning as I followed her through a corridor of silk banners and floating lanterns. She led me to a pavilion there, at its very heart, waited a great pouf, upholstered in dove-grey fur. A sin-drenched cushion begging for depravity.

With effortless authority, she pressed me down into its lavish depths.

Then she poured herself over me.

Like honey over warm bread. Like incense over coals. Her weight was no burden; it was a benediction as I pulled her into me. Her raven-dark curls tumbled forward, brushing against my breasts as her lips descended to the slope of my neck.

Teeth.
Lips.
Tongue.

She bared her teeth…and…bit.

I arched. My breath shattered like a dropped crystal decanter. My hands clawed at the fur beneath me, trying to hold onto something as her mouth made a holy ruin of my composure. She tasted me, slowly, methodically, from the salt-licked hollow of my collarbone to the tender, aching peaks of my breasts. Her mouth was both merciless and worshipful, her tongue a flickering flame, and her teeth the sacrosanct punishment I never knew I craved.

She suckled. She pulled. She bit. She devoured.

I keened beneath her, eyes wide and sightless, like a lyre string strummed too hard, my body vibrated. Her thighs cradled me with the authority of a queen on her throne, anchoring me in a temple of flesh. I was no longer merely mortal.

I was hers.

The euphoria was transcendent, not the vulgar kind, not quickened or cheap, but cathedral, holy, utterly annihilating. My body became a reliquary, every nerve a filament strung for worship. My soul, once tethered to flesh, became nothing but a trembling note, a sustained chord sung upward into the cosmos’ dome above us.

Seconds elongated, languorous, and forbidden. We giggled like girls caught kissing behind a curtain, all flushed innocence and scandalous thrill. Our hands roved with whispered purpose, each touch a verse in a psalm we wrote on each other’s skin. In Amphictyonis’s arms, lips locked and limbs tangled, I forgot I had ever been mortal.

A passing god paused. His presence was sun-dappled linen and frankincense, the ease of a numinous priest. He watched, not with the lust of man, but the adoration of the devout, and without arrogance, he knelt.

At my feet. Between my legs.

He pressed his solemn lips to the tender, inner seam of my thigh, first one and then the other, while Amphictyonis still lay tangled in my arms. I gasped, a sound more breath than voice, but the God-Priest did not falter. No, he moved like a god who had done this before. Many times. With certainty, with finesse, with the protracted smug confidence of an immortal who knew exactly what he was about to do to me.

He entered my space with practiced ease, his touch both assured and electric. His mouth, God’s, that mouth, was not a supplication but a command. Full lips, warm and deft, mapped my skin like it was familiar territory, and yet he explored as if every inch of me was a new frontier to be conquered.

He licked, kissed, and tasted with devastating control. It wasn’t just skill. It was mastery. Every flick of his tongue was a calculated thrill, every graze of his stubble a reminder that this was no man sent to worship.

This was a god… and he knew exactly what he was doing.

And I…pliant, pulsing, perilously undone…let him.

My hips rose like tides drawn to a relentless moon, aching to meet the plunge of his thick, seeking fingers. He licked with greed and imperious curiosity. With that maddening, masculine knowing…the kind born from repetition, not routine, the kind that made my breath catch and my thighs fall open wider in a silent plea.

Amphictyonis laughed in a low and golden voice into the shell of my ear, her mischief wicked as ripe fruit. In tandem with the God-Priest’s worship, she sank her teeth again, sharp and tender, into the alabastrine curve of my neck. A ragged cry broke free from me, filling the pavilion with the sound of my unraveling. There I was, suspended between two gods: fire and silk, pain and pleasure, devotion and delicious surrender.

And below, oh, below, my nectar answered him like a siren’s call, the dam shuddered and broke. His tongue answered again, deeper this time, swirling and probing with maddening precision. My body clenched. My pulse broke into wild staccato.

And then…I splintered.

The orgasm surged like a tidal wave…white-capped, relentless, and utterly unrepentant…rising and rising until I could no longer hold the tremors within me. I screamed into the hollow of her shoulder, my voice a fractured hymn. My body seized, utterly undone beneath the ministrations of both god and goddess.

Pleasure struck me like a match to oilskin, so sudden, so fierce, so outrageously incendiary it stole the breath from my lungs, and my screams scattered like ash across the marble floor.

I arched…every sinew singing.
I sparked..flames licking beneath my skin.
I burst…shattered into a thousand brilliant shards.

And all the while, Olympus watched, silent, eternal, insatiable.

But the hallowed rite was far from over.

Beneath me, I felt the warm, damp bloom spreading, illicit proof of his skill and the devastating effect of him. The God-Priest had unraveled, and the echo of his mouth still reverberated against my skin.

My Inner Goddess flared to life, full of want, of wild, smoldering satisfaction. I glowed like a woman who had been thoroughly bitten, kissed open, and coaxed to bloom. They had lit something deep in my marrow, and it roared within me.

And then, there was a third. Unfamiliar.

Eryxion’s (AIR-ik-see-on) presence was unusual, his crystal blue gaze sharp as flint. Properly, he requested to join. And I, lulled by the afterglow of bliss, by the security of my Queen and the gentle Priest so near, offered consent. Drunk on pleasure and trust, my climax billowed, and I let the wave take me.

And so, Eryxion took his place at my right.

At first, his palm settled at my throat, not unkindly, but assertively. And I, still glistening, my breath barely recovered, allowed it.

I was floating.
Aureate. Unmoored and open.

Eryxion’s touch, at first, remained within bounds, barely. Firm, yes. Grounding, to a point. But not yet cruel. His voice, when it came, was low and smoky, threading dark phrases into the labile weave of the moment. Not filthy, not quite, but… insinuating. Words not shaped for me, not earned from me, and certainly not welcomed by my Inner Goddess.

But I was distracted. Consumed.

The Priest, oh, he was the orchestrator of my ruin. He summoned crescendo after crescendo, licking, plunging, coaxing, commanding. Amphictyonis floated away and a third faceless god took his place at the altar of my apex as the lips of the Priest kissed their way up my body to my mouth. I floated. I exploded. In their hands. In their mouths until my body was reduced to starlight and sparklers. My soul? Burning, incandescent, spiraling into the cosmos.

But then, he twisted.

Eryxion’s fingers sank into the tender swell of my breasts with unearned familiarity, biting, cruel, as if he meant to bruise the suppleness into submission. He wrenched at my nipples with sudden force, dragging sharp bolts of pain through the golden delirium that had held me so tenderly a moment before.

I gasped. “No.”

My body flinched, recoiling on instinct. Fingers unspooled from the blanket beneath me, seeking escape. I tapped his wrist, once…twice…each gesture deliberate, unmistakable. My voice, thinned by breathless restraint, rasped an entreaty for gentleness.

To his credit, he heeded me.

The vice eased. His touch adjusted. But the damage, subtle as it was, had been done. My breasts cried with protest, bruised by the gravamen of a touch he had not earned. A lingering sting of something taken too far.

Eryxion’s hand slid beneath the curve of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, clutching my tendrils. But even then, his touch remained tinged with something indelicate. His hands returned to my chest with too much domination, too much assumption, as if my continued surrender to my Queen and the Priest was a blanket permission, an open door he had only to stride through.

From deep within, my Inner Goddess stirred, arched an imperial brow…cool, unimpressed. Her gaze narrowed to a sliver of steel.

“He has brazenly mistaken my seraphic submission to others as something he too can claim,” her tone edged with cold rebuke. “How…uncouth.”

She did not rise in anger, not yet. But her knives gleamed, unsheathed just beneath the surface, polished and waiting.

Still, between my thighs, the faceless third god carried me back toward bliss, his rhythm accelerating, his mouth a summer storm, his jaw set with relentless focus. He worked me with a reverence that earned the cries he summoned, and I let go again, bursting into catatonic nothingness.

And just as breath returned to my lungs, as my soul found its way back to Olympus, my heart a wild stallion beneath my ribs…

Crack. Crack. Crack.

His palm struck my cheek. Eryxion slapped my cheek.

The sting was fleeting, but the violation was deep, an unbidden trespass etched into the tender skin of my face. It was a sacred and unyielding boundary, one carved from the darkest echoes of a fractured past.

My heart thundered, but this time in a frantic panic, then stilled in an icy moment.

As if I were no more than a tamed creature bound by invisible chains, he purred in a low, dangerous caress, “That’s a good girl.”

The words slithered through the charged air, poison sweetened with entitlement.

But I am no one’s good girl.

In that instant, my Inner Goddess rose within me…not Aphrodite’s languid grace, but Athena’s unyielding steel.

Her eyes, narrowed, sharp as forged obsidian, yet they bore the flickering shadows of my past, buried deep within my soul. My breath drew in through flared nostrils and slipped out through parted lips, a calculated, measured cadence to quell the wildfire kindling beneath my skin.

My body remembered, all too well, the soul-crushing sting of unearned blows…the searing sting of abuses etched deep by careless hands. My Inner Goddess crystallized into a blade, honed razor-sharp on betrayal and resolute defiance.

I did not scream.
I did not flee.
I did not invite a spectacle.

I pressed my lips into the fragile mask of civility…and I rose.

Graceful.
Commanding.
A queen reclaiming her sovereign ground.

I murmured something about water, a pliant excuse accepted without challenge. No hand dared to halt my departure.

I stepped from that altar of fractured trust, with my thighs trembling with residual want, yet my core ablaze with fierce displeasure. Resolutely, I sought refuge in the merry sanctuary of the kitchen.

There, amidst the muted murmurs of fellow gods and the frangible clink of dainties, I gathered the disquieted fragments of my composure, finding solace in quiet company and cooler air, where the scent of salt and sin did not linger so heavily upon my skin.

We were only conversing about this or that when he moved behind me with the cloaked steps of a monk. The Priest. One moment I was steady on my feet, flushed only from wine and wit, and the next…his hand was on me. A great, commanding palm curling around the inside of my thigh, fingers parting me like pages of scripture. The room fell absolutely silent, or perhaps it was only the roaring in my ears that made it seem so. 

He found my pearl with devastating precision, circling it once, twice, a dark greeting, almost a question. And then, he plunged within. Two fingers, thick and knowing, sank into me with unholy ease, the heel of his hand grinding against that little nub like he knew what I needed. I didn’t mean to be so vocal, yet the sound tore from me rang against polished steel and cold tile. My knees buckled, thighs trembling as warmth gushed down my legs, puddling at my feet in obscene betrayal. Conversation halted. Heads turned. And the Priest? He simply stepped back, sucked his fingers clean and walked away. Gods…these Olympians.

And then, he came.

His footsteps thundered like the hooves of a celestial warhorse, each strike a summons. The very air quivered with the scent of forged iron and scorched myrrh, an intoxicating blend of raw power and mystic fire. He strode into the chamber like an incarnate blacksmith, a living tempest wrapped in bronze and flame, and every immortal soul turned as if pulled by an irresistible magnet.

He was coming, unwavering, right toward me.

His smile bloomed wide and as fierce as the forge’s flame, as radiant as a newborn star. It split his face with a reckless, almost dangerous joy as he crossed the marble floor, his presence pulsing through the room, and the scent of smoke clung to his broad chest like a secret. 

The chaos of earlier moments dissolved, vanished as though they were mere mist fading into the ether. I swallowed hard, my body rooted to the cold stone beneath me. To think, he was simply joining the gathering. It would be arrogant, foolish, even narcissistic, to believe his path was meant for me alone.

But I could not tear my gaze from his smoldering eyes.

Eyes that could make Aphrodite herself tremble.

And yet, when Hephaestus looked, his gaze held only me.

I cannot say where the moment began, whether in the breathless stillness before him or in the fire of his lips against mine.

One instant, I stood before his colossus frame, eyes wide, breath caught, drinking in the enormity of him: those impossibly broad shoulders, a barrel chest sheathed in the scent of smelted steel and molten earth, thighs thick and battle-hardened like the gnarled trunks of ancient oaks that had weathered storms beyond memory.

And then, his mouth crashed into mine.

Gods, the taste of him, a wild vintage aged in flame and shadow.

My lungs emptied, not from fear but from awe. He kissed as if he could swallow stars. As if he meant to devour thoroughly. 

His massive arms wrapped around me, thick and sure, lifting me effortlessly into the air. Crushing me against his forge-hot chest. With my instinctive ankles entwined about his back, Hephaestus abruptly, wordlessly strode through the Olympian halls, his steps a thunderous symphony, his mouth never leaving mine, heat pressed to heat, breath mingling with breath, until we arrived at a secluded pavilion, dimly lit, where rain whispered against the panes and white sheets billowed in the breeze like clouds summoning sinners.

And then I was spread, laid out before him like a decadent feast.

Pale against the alabaster linens, trembling, thighs parting as his great hands explored the territory he was about to ravish. His great regal head descended between my legs with a worshipful greed, his tongue a masterful architect of sensation.

Each flick and sweep was a divine invocation, his skill reciting every lesson my body had ever learned about pleasure, turning them into epiphanic prophecy. He traced every secret swirl, every trembling quiver, every long-forgotten rhythm with the dark devotion of a flame-forged master and the insatiable hunger of embers glowing in the abyss.

His slow laps coaxed, teased, then punished with exquisite cruelty until my thighs curled tight around his head and my cries erupted, fireworks bursting in ecstatic crescendo across the heavens of Olympus.

It was bliss, a timeless current in which matter dissolved and only sensation remained.

And then, a voice sliced through the haze, requesting entry.

My Inner Goddess stiffened, a subtle ripple, a sharp crease etched between her brows. The voice belonged to Eryxion.

But I was besotted on ecstasy, my mind a shimmering haze, the fervent pulse of release still coursing through every trembling fiber. Perhaps my earlier ire was but a fleeting tempest stirred by misjudgment. Surely no malice lurked in his touch.

Through the mist of pleasure, I sought to soothe my Inner Goddess, whispering that we had overreacted, that Eryxion could not be expected to know my boundaries. How could he, when we had scarcely crossed paths?

I nodded my consent, a fragile surrender, confident that Hephaestus would intervene should any shadow darken the trysted space.

Eryxion settled at my left, fingers weaving possessively through my hair, his mouth seeking the delicatesse plains of my throat and breasts once more. His touch was no longer brutal, yet it skirted perilously close to discomfort, too assured, a shade too eager, a whisper too sharp against the tender landscape of my skin.

But then, Hephaestus.

His hands found my knees with deliberate strength, parting me wide, utterly laid bare beneath the fervent mantle of his gaze. Amidst the thunderous roar of blood pounding in my ears, I caught the faint, metallic shhht of foil surrendering to touch. Then came the heat from his vast, searing palms gliding down the length of my thighs, trailing sparks like smoldering embers before anchoring firmly at my hips.

A low, feral growl rumbled from deep within him as he yanked me closer.

Oh, heavens, help me.

He entered me like molten metal poured into waiting molds, thick, heavy, scorching. His weight pressed deep, hands roaming with the slow, deliberate hunger of a master craftsman. Each stroke was a burning imprint, an ineffable scorch that branded my flesh and spirit alike, molding me beneath his relentless flame. My skin, slick and trembling, drank in his heat as if baptized in fire, every pulse a hammer’s strike driving me open, breaking and forging me anew in the crucible of his desire.

I cried out, not from pain, but from the shattering surrender of all resistance, undone beneath the relentless drive of him.

My neck arched back, bare and exposed, as his body claimed the territory his tongue had already branded with savage devotion.

Then came the thrusts, so merciless, so unyielding, each one driving deeper like a smith’s hammer against raw iron.

My body writhed beneath him, torn open and remade with every brutal strike, flesh pressed to unbreakable steel, a dark symphony of craving and command echoing through my bones.

To my right, I discovered Jack had taken his place beside me, thick and throbbing, a living pulse cradled in my hand, demanding my worship. I sank my lips over him with ravenous focus, my tongue tracing slow, sinuous caresses along the heated crown, my moans trembling like along his length like the thunder shuddering the windows, even as Hephaestus ravaged me from below with adytum fury.

The urgent pressure mounted, unbearable, a tempest gathering behind my ribs, threatening to shatter me utterly.

I had to release. I had to unravel.

Nearly mad, I freed Jack from my lips, my forehead pressing against the solid comfort of his thigh, tears welling at the edges of my eyes from the exquisite, unbearable perfection of it all.

Pleasure tore through me like celestial claws raking across the vault of the heavens.

Hands mauled my breasts, lips trailed fire along my throat, fingers twisted uncomfortably deep in my hair, while beneath me, my very core throbbed and sang, swelling beyond endurance.

And Hephaestus, God of Flame, God of Iron, drove into me like a brutal hammer crushing red-hot steel. His breath came ragged, a guttural growl torn from the furnace of his chest, each piston of his hips sharper, fiercer, the very embodiment of an inferno barely contained, raging beneath cracked armor. The desperate tension coiled within him, a tempest threatening to shatter the very forge of his control. He was no mere god, he was the violent reckoning of the forge incarnate, scorching and burning every fiber of me with ruthless, building abandon.

I shattered.

We shattered.

And when transcendent pleasure finally claimed me for the last brutal time, I screamed and split open beneath the God of Flame, burning away like chaff in the forge. Forever imprinted upon the place where stars are born.

And yet… as the molten haze of climax subsided, a sliver of me whispered its regret. I should not have offered a second thread of myself to Eryxion. I wish I had not had to leave a corner of my conscience on guard, braced against the shadow of what he might take. My consent had been real, yes, but laced with caution, a contingency borne of unease. I should have cast myself wholly, recklessly, into Hephaestus’s fire. Surrendered, unfractured. Undivided.

Nevertheless, I did not walk away. I floated.

And Eryxion? He vanished from thought entirely, as though he had never borne conscious witness to that final cataclysm.

What came next, long after the sun had set behind pregnant clouds, was a saccharine smolder. A siren’s breath, warm and teasing against my skin. A coaxed sigh, unraveling the tension like silk drawn through fingers. A moonlight touch, tracing secret paths only the night and desire could know.

It was a flame that did not scorch but seduced.

It was near twilight when she found me.

The heavens above Olympus hung swollen with pewter clouds, their underbellies stitched in pale silver, casting the landscape in a suspended hush. I had slipped from the revelry, barefoot and dazed, chasing a moment of quiet, my senses overstimulated by the presence and opulence of Olympus. 

And there, veiled in the dusk of a secluded alcove, stood Diana.

The Huntress. The Lunar Sovereign. In truth, she shimmered with an untold oblation.

Her eyes found mine, and bloomed with resplendent comprehension. She opened her arms.

And I fell.

Wordless. Weightless.

In a whisper, she transported us to a private pavilion. I pressed into the velature hush of her abundant décolletage, where the world no longer clamored. One hand threaded into my hair, the other caressed between my shoulder blades, anchoring me with a touch as aërial as moth wings. Her lips brushed my temple, sacral. My flesh lingered on the cusp of stillness, caught in the hush between heartbeats, as though one errant breath might unweave the diaphanous spell suspended over and through our bare entanglement. Yet slowly, exquisitely, I softened, helpless to the warm dissolution of her arms, drawn again into the curvature of her gravity.

The dulcet texture of her skin, impossibly smooth, redolent of wild laurel and something ineffably lunar, caught my breath in the hollow of my throat. Her growl ghosted against the shell of my ear, not a word but an utterance older than language itself, a claiming rumble, low and lush. It trembled like the sound stars might make when they weep behind clouds.

Her curls mingled with mine. Time slowed and ceased altogether.

Diana’s movements over my body were unhurried, almost ritualistic. A silent choreography of moonlight and intention. I lay with one cheek pressed to the cool whisper of the bedding, and her fingers began their pilgrimage: slow, deliberate, tracing lullabies along the cusp of my ear, the slope of my jaw, the vulnerable hollow of my throat. She paused there, her palm ghosting over my neck, not in threat, but in assurance. She could claim me, collar me with a mere curl of her hand… but she didn’t. She only touched. And then moved on.

Her long, elegant fingers traveled lower, brushing the swell of one breast, then the other, not groping but cherishing, mapping the tender landscape as if she might memorize its terrain by reverent incitement alone. Across the soft plains of my abdomen, down toward the hush between breaths. And for a suspended, canonized instant, we simply lay, entwined, entangled, ensouled, while fairy lights blinked and shimmered like fireflies spun from primordial starlight around us.

And then…still cradled beneath the exquisite length of her milky body, her hands resumed their languid odyssey, fingertips transformed into intrepid explorers, tracing secret maps across the cicatricial terrain of my skin, wandering with the tender curiosity of a devoted lover.

Her featherlight tips skimmed the contour of my ribs as though I were a sculpture carved for her worship alone. Her lips found the shallow basin at the base of my throat, lingering there, exhaling warmth into a chamber that ached for her touch like a prelapsarian sanctuary, starved of tenderness through endless eons.

When at last her fingers slipped between my thighs, it was not hunger that moved her.

It was knowing…a dark, predatory grace woven with silk and shadow; the secret language of a mistress who had hunted beneath endless moons, skilled in the art of claiming, bending wills, and unraveling defenses. Her touch was both balm and blade. It was a knowing that cut deeper than flesh, a commanded dominion waged skin against skin.

There was no coercion. No urgency. Only the tenuous, devastating tenderness of a goddess who did not need to rush. She touched me as though she were opening a love letter long delayed, unfolding each layer slowly, savoring the altarity of each revealed line.

Only the faintest echo of moonlight lingered, a pale ode illuminating Diana’s majestic outline. There was no sound other than the shallow cadence of our intertwined breath, as if the very air revered the sacredness of our communion. And then, the aching purity of being seen, not as a prize to be claimed or a conquest to be won, but as a rare and precious reliquary, something adored, cherished beyond mortal reckoning.

A soft gasp escaped me, vitrescent as spun glass. Tears traced glistening paths down my cheeks, not born of pain, nor even mere pleasure, but from the radiant enthrallment of a beauty so profound it defied utterance. The unbearable opaline delirium of being wholly known, recognized by a goddess who had gazed upon the death of stars and still deemed me worthy of this hallowed moment.

Her fingers moved with a vermilion finesse, seeking my unfettered release with the measured experience of a high priestess, coaxing it forth with orison-like ease. I sighed into the sanctuary of her shoulder, lips parted in a low, venerated cry rising like a prayer from the depths of my very soul. She held me through the storm of sensation, murmuring my name like a votive incantation, her touch an ethereal liturgy repeated in endless, dulcet refrain. With every gentle repetition, she cradled me as no earthly hand ever dared, enfolding me in a silken web of ardent devotion, it’s strands spun from beyond mortal reach. It was an embrace that both enshrined and unmade, sanctifying every heartbeat, every quivering breath.

And when the tempest’s ardor finally waned, I wept silver tears on the rose petals of my cheeks. Wordlessly, curling into the sanctuary of her embrace. She folded around me like twilight’s silken shroud woven from moonlight and secrets unspoken. Her arms held me with a reverence that quieted the world, each sigh a vesper, each heartbeat a canticle of praise.

Slowly,  the muted murmur of Olympus returned, while beyond the marble walls, fireworks blossomed in the quilted sky, phosphorescent sparks lighting the drizzled night in luminous bursts of sapphire, ruby, and gold. Their resounding boom a seeming chorus celebrating the consecration of our union.

My pulse, once wild and riotous, softened to a languid rhythm beneath Diana’s sheltering hold. Her breath teased the crown of my tousled head. And in that near sleep hush, my Inner Goddess curled contentedly, purring and remade. No part of me remained untouched. I had been marked, and sanctified by their masculine virility, by queenly decree, by the unspoken language of touch and surrender. 

At last, we stirred. And the world beyond our alcove unfurled with twilight delight. Laughter chimed across the marble, notes of revelry skipping like tossed jewels through the night. Fireworks burst above Olympus, flares of ruby and molten gold reflected in the polished stone, echoing like distant applause.

I stepped into it, skin kissed by the lingering drizzle of midsummer stormlight, hair tangled with tales of my debauchery, body humming with memory. The air tasted of honeyed wine, ozone, and far-off thunder. All around, gods dallied and danced, entwining with lavish abandon.

And I? I walked amongst them all, barefoot, radiant in the afterglow, still cloaked in the musk of godfire. No longer mortal, not quite myth, but perhaps…something fever-born and finely spun, a creature wrought of dalliance and ruin, of starlight and sacrilege alike.

Until next time, XO. Elsie