December 2025 – Listen Here
I take up my pen with a foolish, telltale smile…yet the palm trees conspire against me. They murmur. They sway their heads in warning. Ink hesitates above parchment, arrested by heat and memory, as though the island itself has lifted an elegant finger to my lips.
Hush.
I am borne back to a dominion of Olympians and salt, where my body is arrayed in scarlet silks spun thin as seafoam and devised not for pleasure, but for subjugation…threads drawn taut with hunger and intention. The silk clings like a second tide, scarlet against bronze and pearl, tracing us with languid cruelty, promising exposure while artfully refusing it. Beside me, the goddess moves within matching filigree, her scarlet web kissed by salt air and breeze, revealing only what would most exquisitely deny, teaching the eye to ache and the mind to beg. Our finery is a tropical snare, woven with singular intent: to draw gods down into the sand before us—knees pressed to heat-softened earth, mouths gone dry, voices roughened by want as they plead for a single mercy, a taste barely offered and never freely given.
The goddess’s breath unspools beside me, a sound too rich, too sovereign for daylight, and above us the coconuts chuckle softly, conspirators all.
I try to write of hands—how they pressed their intentions into my skin until I bore their shape. To relay how four bodies came together without caution, without courtesy, the air cracking with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, slick with salt and urgency. Palms skimmed, grasped, claimed—movement layered upon movement until my body no longer knew which sensation belonged to whom, only that it was being answered from every side.
Climaxes tore loose like jungle birds startled from the canopy—shrill, savage, irrepressible—each cry answering the next in a fevered call-and-response that obliterated thought. There was no sequence, no mercy from the twin Olympian gods. Fingers, mouths, cocks—again and again—converged upon the goddess and me with a singular, ruinous purpose: to strip us of thought, leaving us mewling, emptied, spent. Gods, they nearly succeeded.
Heavy cocks dragged slow and deliberate through the depth of us, thick crowns swelling, claiming, forcing us open before slamming home with the merciless rhythm of surf battering a helpless shore. The air reeked of salt, heat, and release. My body rang with impact, with use, with need—tender flesh blooming into bruises even as my Inner Goddess arched and bared her throat, demanding more.
It was not gentle. It was not sane.
It was exquisite.
I try to record the taste of mouths finding one another, bruised and lavish, heat blooming where breath mingled with breath. The air grew heavy with sin and sun-warmed skin, thickened by the closeness of others—near enough that every sound landed, every shudder was felt. Want multiplied in that press of bodies, each nerve sharpened by witness, by chorus, by the knowledge that nothing here was solitary. The night itself seemed to sweat with us, palms rustling overhead, the island leaning closer to listen.
“Shhh,” intoned the surf, jealous to keep the island’s secrets.
The waves remind me of the excess—the tide that overtook the bed itself, leaving ruin in its wake. My cheeks still warm at the recollection, though a private smile claims me; the fault was not mine alone. Surely the goddess beside me must answer for half, or else the twin Olympians who presided below our waists, greedy for tribute and unrepentant in their devastation.
“No,” the breeze breathes against my ear. “You’ve said enough.”
There were towels—so many of them taken from all the alcoves. Knees left untrustworthy. A mattress stripped to its bones while the machine labored faithfully through the night. I remember lying wrapped in damp linen, freshly bathed, listening to the slow churn of absolution while the last pulses of pleasure lingered like a secret rhythm beneath my skin. My Inner Goddess wore a most insolent smile, still savoring the boldness she had demanded before sleep was allowed to claim me.
“Sssshhh,” whisper the unblinking stars. “The island keeps what it takes.”
Defiantly, I try to write it all down, to catch the second night before it slips away—but the island resists me. Memory blurs where it should sharpen. Details loosen their grip. Yet…
The second night rises more languidly. Sun-warmed skin. Rum-dark laughter. The easy looseness of having nowhere else to be. Something feral and softened all at once. I cannot recall what I wore—only that it served its purpose. Somehow the four of us drifted together again, bodies folding as naturally as hammocks in a breeze, kisses exchanged like stolen fruit—sweet, unhurried, savored—before we found ourselves once more upon familiar sheets, the island humming its approval beyond the open windows.
It was not excess that ruled us then, but nearness. The world we had fled still clung faintly to our limbs, exhaustion tempering appetite. Fingers traced rather than claimed. Valiantly, we sought the fervor of the first night—but contentment prevailed. There is a particular intimacy in choosing stillness.
“Ssssshhh,” croons the Moon Goddess. “I have already remembered for you.”
At last, I look up and find her watching, that pale celestial. She touches my cheek with a silvered nail and reminds me that not every moment must be embalmed in ink. Some pleasures are sworn to silence. What is tasted abroad may wish to remain there.
My brow furrows; I grumble, even as I obey, setting my pen aside.
I do not wish a single second to vanish into the dark archives of old age…yet there is joy in harboring, in tucking such hours safely within the chambers of my heart, salted like ripe fruit against the white-haired years to come, to be taken out and savored slowly, warmed by memory and moonlight, privately…
Until next time, XO. Elsie
Year of the Inner Goddess 