Uncategorized – Page 3 – Year of the Inner Goddess

Moonlight and Olympians

Their murmurs tore the air, lips on lips, nails raking leather as the goddess scrabbled for purchase, her ribboned laughter shredded into ragged sighs. Their rites bled into mine, fanning a feral hunger that gnawed at every fiber, consuming thought and restraint alike.
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The Hunger Between Us

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!
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The Dread Olympians

Their bodies crashed into mine in a cadence of feral ecstasy, an oscillation both herculean and violent, each collision striking sparks through my marrow. Their growls were low, ominous, inexorable, and rolled like war drums through the chamber of my chest, causing my breath to catch and my Inner Goddess to stagger.
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Awakening

I was desperate for the restoration of my Inner Goddess and hoped, with every fiber of me, that she could be lured by such forbidden temptation.
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Nothing

I should have felt split open by now, undone. I should have felt the stretch, the sacred sting, the firecrackers already ignited and bursting behind my eyelids. But instead…
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Temple of Pleasure and Pain

Her hand drew one end of the intertwined rope, cinching it closer to my throat. Not pitiless, but commanding. My eyes fluttered closed. Her other palm found the nape of my neck, grounding me in the rising tide of sensuous pulsations. Her mouth descended in an ardent, opulent kiss, the kind that liquefies reason.
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Spin The Bottle

Hardly the sort of trifling amusement one might expect amidst oak-hewn pillars and divinely sculpted forms. Surely, the celestials of Olympus would not deign to play something as juvenile as Spin the Bottle. And yet…
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Fireworks Over Olympus

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.
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The Compass Queen

She was not born to a crown. But when kings charted their way to her bed, their paths clear and their hearts bare, the world took note and began to whisper a name. The Compass Queen.
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Scheming

I arranged myself with calculated abandon upon the couch, draped in nothing but that wicked scrap of lace and the sin of longing. Ankles demurely crossed, arms looped behind me, my spine a perfect line of poised defiance, I perched on the couch, just in sight of the front door.
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Category: Uncategorized