Year of the Inner Goddess

August 2025

I had not realized until that night how long I had been holding my breath for him. How tightly I had held myself taut, ribs cinched like stays, breath bound tight in the corset of my own restraint, lest disappointment shatter me once more. Too much had stood in the way of a passionate reunion: the cruelty of distance when he moved beyond my reach, the ill-timed frailties of our bodies, even the tyrannical weight of August’s sweltering clutches. I kept my expectations chained, whispering to myself that fate would surely meddle again.

But then…he was there. Against every merciless arithmetic of fate, he sank to his knees before me, a voracious vision of supplication turned predation, his broad shoulders wedged between my parted thighs, the scandalous froth of my skirt rucked high in shameless disarray about my waist. His mouth descended with a ravenous precision upon my bare skin, and the very marrow seemed to weep from my bones.

A gasp escaped me, unbidden, my eyes already rolling back into the haze of surrender, and he had not yet trespassed upon the sacred center of me. No, his devastating patience tormented me with the decadent liturgy of delay: lips grazing, teeth grazing, little nibbles of possession scattered along the tender silk of my legs. Each bite a mark, each kiss a brand, until I quivered not from climax but from the unbearable anticipation of it.

And then…his voice. Low, feral, an instrument strung with smoke and thunder, climbing the length of me like a storm-scaled serpent, coiling up my body, announcing his dominion with a hunter’s oath.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I intend to be here… for a very long time.”

The words bound me like serpentine vines, coiling around my limbs, winding tight about my throat until breath itself became a decadent labor. I could scarcely believe him real, yet there he was, lips grazing, teeth nipping, tongue drawing languorous whorls into the thrumming flesh of my thighs. He did not devour me with the heedless urgency of mortal men. No, this was indulgence, an unhurried desecration of time itself. He unwove me thread by silken thread, patient as a spider savoring the tremble of her captive web.

Each kiss upon the pale skin above my knee, each studied drag lower, was not to hasten but to enthrall. He lured me not upward but downward, deeper, coaxing me into the abyss of his appetite. He fed as a connoisseur drinks from a jeweled goblet, luxuriant, reverent in his own dark delight.

The languor was criminal. My belly was still satisfied from our shared supper, yet his tongue, persistent, sly, lapping like a cat at sugared cream, commanded my body into utter capitulation. I could no longer protest, only writhe, undone by the sensation that silk itself had learned to move with merciless intent. Time abandoned me. The last rays of sun slipped away, the room dissolving into shadow, and still I lay sprawled across my couch, my sapphire hair scattered like spilled ink, my thighs shuddering against his face.

When he growled his satisfaction, the sound reverberated through me like a subterranean quake, igniting my nerves, splintering me open from within. And then, those fingers. Broad, inexorable, perilously exact. They prowled with merciless intent, unerring in their path toward the jeweled heart of me, and when they found it, the precision was so exactingly perfect it wrenched a sound from my throat, half sob, half moan, born of agony and ecstasy entwined.

I arched beneath him, undone, the plea already flooding my body though no words escaped my lips. I begged in silence, in the language of tremors and gasps, of hips lifting in helpless offering. Wordless, desperate, I entreated him, not with speech, but with every shudder of my flesh.

Release rose swift and savage, an ocean wave already breaking against the cliffs of me, until he stilled. His hand lingered, suspended, a torment crystallized in time. His eyes, dark with mischief, swept over the couch beneath us with the exactitude of a connoisseur assessing a prized artifact.

“Is this blanket waterproof?” he inquired, his voice a low murmur that teased the air between us.

My moan fractured into laughter, edged with despair, a delirium tinged with disbelief: undone not by his mercy, nor by my refusal, but by the ignoble tyranny of upholstery. I considered deception, after all, it was merely a couch, easily cleaned. Words teased the tip of my tongue, yet his keen eyes and the imperious tilt of one brow silenced them before they could form.

“No,” I whispered, scarcely more than breath, daring him not to hear, praying he would resume.

His smirk carried the unmistakable arrogance of a man who had orchestrated every nuance, as though even the furniture had conspired in his design. And oh, the denial! It honed my lust to a blade, sharpened my longing into cataclysmic torment. My body throbbed with ruinous need, each nerve strung taut, every breath a sumptuous penalty. I was no longer a woman but an instrument, a cathedral of desire whose bells had been devastatingly silenced at the instant of tolling, leaving me quivering in the hush of unbearable anticipation.

With a heaving sigh of capitulation, I guided him to the sanctuary of my bedroom, the air between us crackling, electric, thick with unspent promise. The Demigod excused himself to the ensuite, leaving me to my recklessness. My hands trembled as I dragged back the covers, spreading the shield of the waterproof layer with a shiver of anticipation. My mattress, new, lush, and perilously inviting, beckoned like a siren, humming a silent, seductive aria.

I bit my lip, lifted my chin, and met his gaze as he filled the doorway: all sinew and shadow, prowling toward me with the skulking virility of a jungle sovereign. And then, impossibly, his fingers plunged into me once more, possessing me with absolute command. Months of distance, the tyranny of time, all obstacles, nothing dulled his mastery.

My body answered in torrential floodtides, drenching the sheets, urging him only to press harder, deeper, to seize the crescendo he had so wickedly withheld. I pressed my forehead to his shoulders, nails raking sculpted muscle, convulsing so violently that no sound could escape me. He released me just enough for me to gasp, and I fell back, the white room spinning around me. The gossamer curtains, cascading from ceiling to floor like elfin banners, quivered as though watching my ruin with silent envy.

His hands never faltered, each motion deliberate, a sculptor’s devotion, tracing, enthralling, memorizing every curve and hollow that left no expanse of me uncelebrated, no quiver unnoticed. One hand pressed deep, curling inside me, drawing my nectar with a slow, greedy insistence, while the other wandered with languid authority: caressing, pinching, gripping, tugging my hair to anchor me beneath his intent gaze. Every flick of a finger, every brush of a palm, was a decree; I could do nothing but obey, shivering, undone, surrendered.

Twin bite marks bloomed on each calf, purple and crimson, mirrored in perfect symmetry, each puncture a silent ode to his appetite. Then, with meticulous savagery, he captured my palm, each finger disappearing behind his lips, drawn out between his teeth, until he pounced upon the pad where thumb and palm converge, biting with tenebrous force. A sharp cry, half gasp, half moan, erupted from me, an acknowledgment of delicious, sublime subjugation.

Abruptly, he sank to his knees at the side of my bed, yanking my hips toward him with a ruthless insistence. His tongue traced me like a reaver mapping its territory, cataloging every tremor, every shiver, every slick, hidden hollow of surrender. I arched, twisted, writhing beneath him, convulsing in dark, unrelenting waves that drenched the sheets. My body pressed into him with a hunger that was no longer mine alone, cries smothered against the pillow as his mouth ravaged me with feral reverence, devouring, engulfing, and marking me. Each insidious stroke, each press of teeth and tongue, felt like an ownership inscribed upon my flesh, leaving me trembling, gasping, and utterly undone.

Each motion became ritual, a premeditated litany of indulgence and remembrance. His tongue mapped me with meticulous obsession, alternating with fingers that never relented. Every curl, every press, every sabbatic, merciless drag brought me closer to ruin. My breaths came ragged, mingling with shuddering moans I fought to stifle; the sound of my undone, palpitating body filled the hush of the white room, a private symphony of surrender.

And yet, he paused – just the briefest withdrawal, teasing, deliberate, leaving me suspended in ravishing torment. I quivered in anticipation, nerves taut, body straining toward him like a tethered instrument, longing for release. Then, impossibly, he returned, plunging deeper, moving with a rhythm both violent and reverent, coaxing me higher, faster, until waves of ecstasy threatened to shatter every fiber, every nerve, every inch of my being. My nails clawed across his shoulders, marking, pleading for more, while his hands and mouth orchestrated my ruin with intoxicating, predatory mastery.

Time dissolved. Nothing existed but sensation: heat, slickness, tremor, pulse. My body became a temple of unrelenting craving, each nerve alive, each breath a celebration of his devotion and skill. I shivered, convulsed, and surrendered utterly to the apex of ineffable abandon, a storm of sensation that left me spent, trembling, and irrevocably, gloriously suspended in blissful nothingness.

My reader, you might imagine the story ends here, in drenched, glorious surrender, but you know better. The Demigod was far from sated. He drove himself into me with relentless precision, a dark inevitability that threatened to cleave me in two. My eyes widened, fingers curled until they ached, my very womb recoiled and trembled beneath the invader…

She appeared, magnificent, feral, siphoning his vitality like a shadowed predator, amplifying it into a savage rhythm that pulsed through every vein, every nerve. Her presence fanned the inferno within me. Wings unfurled, sharp and fluid, tracing arcs of dark power, guiding, commanding, compelling him to tilt, grind, collapse, fracture, ride, teetering us both on the precipice of ruin. Her laughter struck me like a whip, her claws tracing my spine as he followed her lead, every thrust, every drag, every bite orchestrated with terrifying precision and ruthless artistry that made my core shiver, sing, and quake.

We became a trinity of carnality: he pressed, devoured, and ravished; she surged, coaxed, and possessed; I yielded, writhed, trembled, and clawed back, suspended in a maelstrom that blurred the line between agony and ecstasy. My body rose on tiptoe, fell with deliberate abandon, grinding against him, twisting under him, every motion a dangerous interplay of domination and surrender. Tongue and fingers, teeth and hips collided in a choreography of feral indulgence, each punctuated by the staccato rhythm of my own shuddering cries.

Kneeling behind me, forcing his way into my apex as I froze on all fours, every thrust was a knife-edge, every collision of skin a razor against my raw, aching flesh. Time dissolved: there was no before, no after, only the relentless cadence of him and the dark, wild echo of her guiding power through me. My body became a thing of instinct and ruin, each nerve strung taut with fire, hovering at the edge of annihilation and delirium. I was utterly, irredeemably undone, yet craving, hungering, needing more, each guttural gasp an intoxicating hymn to unrestrained abandon.

His hands mapped me, sculpted me, anexing every dip and swell, every slick fold of surrender, while his mouth worshipped, devoured, traced me with raptor-like ferocity. Tongue and fingers intertwined in orchestrated chaos. Every curl, press, and drag propelled me higher, faster, until every fiber of my being vibrated on the edge of obliteration.

His oak-like thighs spread wide across the maple floor as he forced me over the bed at a sharp angle, driving into me with merciless insistence. I rose on tiptoe, shivering, each drive of him sending tremors through my core, nerves strung taut as bowstrings. Our thighs collided, my buttocks flushed the deepest crimson beneath the savage punctuation of each slap, each a note in a darkly harmonious cadence of hunger. My nails clawed the coverlet, raking, marking, pleading, as my back arched, hips lifted, body convulsing in waves of feral surrender.

And still she pulsed within me. My Inner Goddess surged, wings folding and stretching in rhythm with him, amplifying the chaos of sensation. Life and desire, giving and taking, pleasure and knife-edge danger collided in a maelstrom that consumed me utterly. Every gasp, shudder, and convulsion became a testament to their combined, insatiable will.

Time blurred, I was lost, my screams sinking into the already damp bedding. I felt nothing and everything. Sensing my knees about to give way, he angled his legs, tucking his toes beneath the soles of my feet, a silent, calculated support, yet his tempo never faltered. Vision blurred, breath stolen.

I lay on my back, chasing the vertigo of life and death, each thrust a perilous promise that I might fracture, shatter, yet still soar. His massive body overshadowed me, hips driving with the precision of a blade honed to a single, merciless edge. Every thrust of his thick, girthy cock, every slide, every bite, every spasm became a feral litany, a dark symphony of domination, surrender, and desperate craving.

Suddenly, I was atop him, straddling his Adonis body. I lifted, fell, pressed into him, surrendering to the feral cadence, to the terrifying intimacy of complete abandon. Every nerve screamed, every sinew quivered, each motion a collision of pain and pleasure that left my senses fractured and alight.

He angled me, tipping my hips, pressing deeper, commanding each motion with the cold, unerring authority of a Dom who had memorized the architecture of my body, the map of my deepest, most secret hollows. I gasped, back arching, fingernails raking the expanse of his chest as he slammed into me with deliberate barbedness, a rhythm that tore me between ecstasy and near-destruction.

My body was no longer mine, drenched, irredeemably undone, and still, I ached for more.

I slipped from him at last, lungs heaving, every breath ragged, my body stripped of grace by the tempest we had conjured together. My Inner Goddess stirred, her lacquered nails curling through me, sharpening my movements with the exquisite venom of hunger not yet sated.

The Demigod lay sprawled among the sodden sheets, chest gleaming, his mighty frame still as if carved from marble. For a moment, he seemed undone, vanquished, yet to me, he was an irresistible invitation. The last vestiges of protection had dissolved from his still erect girth, and something primal inside me whispered: Now.

Positioned between the trunks of his mighty legs, my nose brushed the manicured hardness of his groin, drawing in his musk, redolent of sweat and me, while copious streams of drool cascaded, slicking my palms, varnishing every stroke in a sheen of reckless devotion. My Inner Goddess swelled in triumph. I was literally drooling over this Demigod. Both hands worked in concert, stroking, twisting, cupping, commanding with militant precision. My Inner Goddess hissed through me, urging harder, deeper, to sheath him entirely within the cavern of my throat until my lashes dampened and my throat convulsed, choking around him.

I studied him as he had studied me: every tremor, every twitch catalogued, worshipped. Mouth engulfing crown, hands coaxing root, I forged one fluid cadence, down my throat, up my palms, back again, an unbroken river of adoration. With every pass, his cock thickened, darkened, pulsing with defiance, with surrender. Mine, I thought, a feral thrum vibrating through me. His ruin, his release, will be mine.

And then, he shuddered. A seismic burst erupted, hot and unrelenting, spilling across my palms, my lips, my very skin. Obscene in its magnitude, it drenched me, marked me. I did not falter; not for a heartbeat did my strokes relent. I lingered, worshipping, hands kneading each ridge and vein, lips tracing swollen flesh with languid care, coaxing every last trembling drop from the fountain of his surrender.

At last, he collapsed utterly, jerking faintly with the aftershocks of his own ruin. My Inner Goddess purred, smug in her triumph. We had taken him to tatters, expended every measure of his essence. My mouth curved into a smirk. Too long, far too long, since last I feasted so.

I reached to my right and drew a plush towel over him, swathing his spent form in its comforting depth, shielding the wetness from the chill that seeped in with the idle swing of the fan. To my left waited the glass vial of massage oil. It bore no perfume, but I cared not. In the sudden hush, no more crack of skin, no more broken cries, the sultry strains of music curled through the air.

For forty minutes, I tended him with opulent diligence. My palms pressed, glided, kneaded, inscribing every contour of his form into memory. I coaxed every knot, every tension, until his body softened beneath me. I commanded him to turn, to surrender again beneath my hands, to yield his back, his shoulders, his thighs to the indulgent litany of touch.

And in the midst of it all, my heart brimmed with a perilous peace, a trembling sweetness too fragile to last. For one suspended moment, the world lay hushed and obedient, gilded by our ruin.

It ended not in devastation but in reverence, my joy feathered, glimmering in its lightness. I rose watching him dress with a stoic refinement that made my teeth ache to bite, to bruise, to mark him, to drag him back into my grasp.

In the front room, I rose on my tiptoes to kiss him, more theft than gift, tasting of salt, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of exhaustion staining my lips. I lingered a fraction too long, clinging as though imprinting him, even as my hands betrayed me by letting him go.

He descended the stairs with a leonine nobility, his silhouette dissolving step by easy step into shadow. I lingered at the threshold, devouring him with my eyes, greedy for every last flicker of presence. The door yawned open to the velvet night, and he vanished as though claimed by the darkness itself, consumed, erased, yet utterly imprinted in memory.

I stood unmoving, lips tingling, lungs emptied of him. Desire still rippled through me, twin-edged, sweet as it was hot. A wistful smile curved my mouth; his absence pressed upon me like a bruise I could not stop touching. Though gone, the ache remained. I was left unbearably awake. 

I sighed, tasting the honeyed dolor that it would never be enough, yet triumph threaded through me, for absence had at last been broken. I withdrew into the hush of my own chambers, my precious sanctum steeped in glow and peace, settled about me like a familiar mantle. 

The bath drawn, water shimmered, scented faintly with black orchid and honeysuckle. Steam curled upward in languid spirals, tracing the contours of the room like phantom promises. I slid in, letting the water lap against my skin, coaxing each curve, each hollow, each high-strung line into molten relaxation. My fingers traced teasing arcs over myself, over the tension still humming in my muscles, leaving trails of heat that clung to me long after they passed.

The bubbles nestled against me like a lover’s breath, drifting down my shoulders, pooling in the valleys of my body, sparkling over my breasts, winding languidly down my legs. I pressed my palms along my calves, along my ribs, feeling the pulse of my own desire thrum beneath my touch, igniting a delicious, feral anticipation.

I sank further into the bath’s depth, the frothing bubbles gathering like a thousand fevered tongues upon my flesh…tasting, laving, teasing as if some unseen paramour lingered at every curve. My head reclined against the porcelain’s cool embrace, eyes fluttering shut as my breath unfurled in languorous, ceremonial waves. Yet within, my Inner Goddess prowled, obsidian-sharp, her pulse a relentless drumbeat of intent. It was time to rise, a phoenix from molten waters, and array myself in the sacred vestments of lace and silk.

True, I had been dominated once already, yet my evening was far from spent. Before long, another god would dare to cross my threshold, to taste the fire still smoldering within me, to stake claim with reckless, reverent hunger. My Inner Goddess would receive him, sovereign and unrepentant, in the dark, sacred theatre of my unquenchable desire, savoring every flame he ignited, every daring touch that seized me in turn.

Until next time, XO. Elsie.