October 2025
The dark still held the scent of night when his hand found my inner thigh. The world was silent, suspended in that fragile breath before dawn when the stars hesitated between burning and fading. Every part of me was awake to the quiet, his warmth against my skin, the slow rhythm of our shared breathing, the air fragrant with dew and silence, the kind of stillness that seems to wait for a fairy’s first breath.
I felt him, the shape of him, the gravity of his masculinity, drawing every hidden piece of me into orbit. Our hearts moved in unison, slow and inevitable, as though time itself bent to the rhythm we made. Every inch of me seemed to remember itself through the warmth of his touch, every forgotten piece returning, tender and whole. What began as a whispered ache unfurled into something vaster, untamed; a low, feral music that rose between us like worship.
My Inner Goddess within me had stirred, radiance pooled in my veins, shimmering like molten gold. My glistening vibrator was already discarded on the headboard. My moan of pleasure had awakened him. Feeling powerful, she did not wait to submit but met him, straddling the masculine not in conquest but in communion. Impaling myself on his already hardened steel was a liturgy, every moan a psalm of all the women who ever burned for union. My body became their altar; my hunger, their holy fire.
And still…It was quiet, but the silence rang, like a cathedral filled with unseen bells. The space around us thickened, steeped with breath and need, the edges of the world slipping away until there was only this, heat, heartbeat, the trembling pulse beneath my palm. In the velvet darkness, I felt his gaze on me, and it felt like falling into the center of the earth. No beginning, no end.
His touch held reverence, not haste. Fingers mapped the fragile topography of me as though I were both relic and revelation. The slow glide over my collarbone, the hush of a thumb along my throat, each gesture spoke in a language that predated light. He explored me as though remembering a dream he’d once lived, tracing the ruins of it with awe.
Every stroke awakened a forgotten lexicon beneath my skin. The press of his palm over my heart, the quiet claiming of my waist, each act gathered the scattered fragments of me. The years I had folded myself into smallness, the pieces I had hidden beneath survival, began to unfurl and realign beneath the warmth of his worship.
He did not need words. His hands spoke them in a dialect of heat and trembling grace, each syllable drawn from breath, not voice. In that shadowed sanctum, I was not fractured. I was seen. I was remade.
Profanity spilled from my lips like psalms torn from heaven, not in blasphemy, but in offering. The world thinned to the rhythm of our breath, the rising and falling of heat and hunger, a thunderous cadence of flesh and fire. When our bodies met, the sound was elemental, water against rock, carnal and relentless. The air thickened with the scent of skin, surrender, and devotion.
Every motion was an unraveling, a surrender of restraint, a delicious undoing of every careful seam. His hands, his gaze, his quiet groan in the hollow of my throat, each answered a prayer I hadn’t known I’d been praying.
The rhythm we found ebbed and surged like a tide upon an unseen shore, inevitable as the moon’s pull. I felt the ache swell, vast and tidal, until thought itself dissolved into pure sensation. Our hearts beat the same fevered cadence; our bodies spoke in echoes of creation.
And with each orgasm, there was a shattering that felt like being born and buried in the same breath. I ground myself against him as he drew me deeper still, our bodies slick. I poured myself over him, a breast heaving on each cheek as the world narrowed to the trembling of our joined breath. The darkness witnessed us, cloaked us, and anointed us.
In that black sanctum before dawn, I was not simply touched. I was worshiped. I was known. And as the first pale light bled across the horizon, there was no beauty in heaven or earth greater than this: two souls stripped of mask and pretense, dissolving into the sanctity of one another.
Until next time, XO Elsie
Year of the Inner Goddess 