August 2025

I. The Seduction

The evening unfolded with a strange enchantment, one spun not from loud music or raucous company, but from the hush of intimacy. I had swept Nisi into my arms, our fingers twining with a fervor that seemed to have been building all day. She had teased me, perhaps, with sidelong glances and playful words, but whether it was her true purview or my own Inner Goddess weaving fancies, I could not tell. What mattered was this: at last, I was pulling her into the bedroom, where desire could breathe unashamed.

There were no clamoring guests, no hostess duties to recall me, only the hush of her lips pressed urgently to mine, soft as rose petals yet fierce as a claim. My fingers wound tight in her raven curls, dragging her closer, until our mouths opened in a collision of flame and honey. Her tongue coaxed mine into a languid duel, tasting, teasing, stealing every gasp I gave. Time itself unraveled; garments melted away in careless haste, and suddenly there was nothing between us but flesh, her skin molten against mine, sliding, pressing, quivering.

Her teeth, sharp crescents of mischief, wandered my body with methodical cruelty. They grazed the swell of my breast, tugged lightly at the peak until I cried out, then abandoned me too soon, leaving my nipples alert and aching. She sketched forbidden maps down my ribs and belly, each playful nip sparking bolts of sensation so fierce I arched beneath her, torn between whimpering and demanding more.

She trailed lower still, her mouth sowing a constellation of fevered kisses across the impressionable inside of my thighs. She lingered there, breath hot, lips maddeningly close, until my muscles quivered, until my hips lifted of their own accord, pleading without words.

And then she descended.

Her tongue parted me with unholy reverence, stroking slowly at first, savoring, coaxing, as though she would drink me dry. Each lick fanned the fire higher, each flick against the swollen bud making my legs shake around her shoulders. Her hands gripped my thighs, holding me open as she feasted with relentless immersion, lapping, circling, pressing deeper until I was nothing but a shuddering prayer, torn open on the altar of her mouth.

She lavished herself upon me, tracing, tasting, sampling as though I were a sacred chalice. Her elegant fingers parted my folds with amorous authority, artful aspiration, seeking hidden depths, insistent on my undoing, until I was carried away in the perpetual tide of her consuming passion.

Each stroke of her tongue was devious, cunning, a sensual adoration that made my legs quake and my breath hitch. I was vaguely aware of divinities drifting at the edges of the room, passing back and forth, observing, approving, some even smirking at my succumbing. The euphoria was so complete I scarcely noticed when another presence pressed closer. An Olympian god joined our hedonism on the bed, straddling my waist, his heavy girth settling against my lips with unassuageable will, and still, I could have turned away… but how could I?

I moistened my lips eagerly, tilting my head, proffering my throat to his slow, inexorable filling. Each inch stretched me, tested me, until my Inner Goddess rolled her eyes back in delirium, lost in sublime tension. Between my thighs, Nisi drove me wild, her mouth and hands worshiping me with a fixation that made my muscles tremble and my hips lift higher. Above, I was claimed, fed, conquered, the weight and heat of him pinning me, each movement igniting sparks that raced through every nerve. My body became nothing but ragged breath, splintered tremor, and slick ecstasy, pooling and rising in delectable waves, my mottled cries mingling with the chorus that swelled from the other chamber, a symphony of want, abandon, and pleasure that left me blissfully undone.

II. The Communion

The night blurred into a carnal symphony. Jack appeared, silent, astute, guardian-like, and with him others, gods and lovers alike. The bed became a garden unlike any earthly one: limbs entwined like flowering vines, bare skin slick with thirst, sheen of sweat catching the dim light, mouths ravenous and worshipful. Fingers trailed across shoulders, down spines, brushing over susceptible silhouettes and primed muscles, while lips found every sensitive swell, every hidden hollow. The air trembled with scent, salt and musk, soaked silk, and the heady aroma of unrestrained want, punctuated by gasps and moans that echoed like music through every chamber, a symphony of lust and devotion.

I moved fluidly from kisses to lips, from lips to cocks, from worshiping with my tongue to being worshiped in turn, a devout participant in this feast of bodies. My skin was alive to every press and brush, every weight of a thigh, the warmth of a hand cupping me, the teasing nip of teeth at my neck or collarbone. There was no orchestration, no hostess’ fretting, only the blessed freedom of communion, where each soul gave and received to the depth they wished. My own body writhing with reverence, drenched in gratitude, saturated in wanton delight, trembling under the ministrations of hands and mouths alike, rolling in a tide of fever and slick ecstasy.

One by one, I was taken. Not with pain, but with treaty: a yielding made sacred, holy even. Every thrust, every sigh, every whispered name or cry seemed to sing: you are alive, you are blessed, you are ours. My thighs pressed against those who worshiped me, a luscious weight and friction that sent sparks racing along every fibre, while hands roamed over my back, hips, and belly, agitating small fires that bloomed into searing torrents. I was a pendulum between heaven and flesh, caught in the ineluctable traction of giving and receiving, of being desired and devoured with abandon, every cord, every hollow, every gasp a testament to the rapture of belonging entirely to this garden of indulgence.

III. The Play

At some point, though time had lost all tether, there was pizza. Laughter mingled with the lingering glow of our bodies, casual chatter threading through the scent of sweat, skin, and sin. Yet I could feel it under my skin: the echo of mouths, hands, and thighs, the aftershocks of lightning still coiling through me, flickering through my very marrow.

In an unguarded moment, I was scooped up, slung over a shoulder like a barbarian’s prize, my surprised shriek catching my guests unaware as I was carried off. My Inner Goddess giggled, sharp and gleeful, only for her laughter to be cut short as we were dropped onto the bed. Legs spread, or did they part of their own accord? His girth claimed me once more, pressing, filling, bending me to erotic extremes. Slick heat pooled between us, every thrust sending flutters racing up my spine.

I was tested then, stretched and filled to such a depth that my inner gate shrank at the intrusion, every inch driving me further into delirium, my spine bowing, my breath fracturing into cries that wove into the chorus from the other room. On my belly, flipped, hips high in presentation, my body a pliant instrument, keenly aware of every slamming thrust, every slick press of skin, the bed trembling beneath us as mortal threads were sundered. My mind struggled to relax muscles and sinews even as surrender burned through every filament, my lifeforce alive with exquisite agitation.

The distant feminine moans, wet, urgent, raw, from the other room fed my fire, each sound a spur racing through my veins, my reckless heart pounding in sync with the wild cacophony. It was all so casual, so shameless, so gloriously wicked, the ordinary transformed into a temple of debauchery, each sweep, each shudder, each gasp sanctifying it, every glance, every touch, every scorched breath a tribute to mastery and ecstasy.

And then, the moment I had not dared to expect.

IV. The Ritual

The Demigod strode up behind me, each step a drumbeat of power, his presence a storm contained within carved muscle and irresistible command. His growl rumbled low and predaceous, a promise of untamed desire, yet his touch, when he lifted the silk scarf, was absurdly, maddeningly gentle. I shivered at the contrast.

I froze, a fawn caught in caliginous shadow, as the blindfold was drawn across my eyes, the silk settling over my lashes like liquid night. He tied it with precise care, never pinching, never harsh, a perfect cocoon of umbra that wrapped my world in chthonic nothingness. My breath caught. My pulse thundered through my veins, each beat echoing in the hollow of my chest. I could not breathe. I could not move. I could not resist.

Every fiber of me thrummed with awareness, my senses heightened to every whisper of sensation, of his looming nearness, the press of his palm against my back, of the shadowed ribbon brushing my skin, whispering promises I could not see yet felt in every inch of me. Midnight wrapped around my vision like an infinite tide, amplifying every breath, every shiver, every flicker of sensation I had not yet dared to name.

I was liable, tremulous on the knife-edge between fear and yielding, between aching craving and distant memory. My body tuned to him, each inhalation and exhalation a measured cadence in the ritual. The world had narrowed to the pull of him, the virile uncertainty, and the unspoken promise of what was to come. I hung there entirely in his orbit, my mind and body attuned to every microshift, every breath, every vibration of his presence, waiting for the moment when the ritual would demand more.

Another scarf bound my wrists, drawn snug with quiet, unerring certainty. It was elegant captivity, no fear, no pinching, no loss of circulation, only the absolute knowledge that I was to bow, to obey, to exist entirely for him. My breath hitched at the nearness of his body, the weight of expectation mingling with desire. The crimson teddy, ribbons crossing and crisscrossing my bosom, offered just enough concealment to preserve a teasing shroud of mystery, even as my skin quivered beneath the heavy weight of his magisterial gaze.

He pressed me forward over the edge of the bed. How had we even arrived here? My palms sank into the firmness of the mattress, pressing into its springy depth as his massive hands roamed over the curve of my back, lifting the indecent hem of my skirt to expose the swell of my hips. Fingers traced, glided, reacquainted themselves with the contour of my buttocks and the smooth slopes of my thighs, guiding me with premeditated, incandescent design. Each touch seared through me, anchoring me even as my mind floated on a tide of burdened anticipation.

It was a calculated subjugation, a slow unspooling of control that left me enmeshed between tautness and pliancy, every muscle attuned to his ascendancy. His touch was an unbinding of its own sort, caresses threading through my coils of tension, palms kneading, teasing, eliciting tremors that rippled from my spine to my toes. I quivered, receptive, every hollow, every contour, every flicker of skin humming with acute attunement.

Then came the first strike. Not a whip, not a cane, that instrument strictly forbidden, but a leather-gloved hand, descending with absolute authority, ravaging my flesh with predatory precision. It’s buffet seared, exacting, merciless, saying: “You will yield. Surrender. Break.” Each blow stung my muscles, my derriere thrumming beneath the dictative claim of his intent. My blood thundered in my ears, a wild cadence to the bed’s groaning beneath the brutal rhythm. Thwack, Thwack, thwack, caress, thwack again, each strike an immortal invocation, threatening to fling me forward, yet my elbows held, iron-strong. I would not falter; even my Inner Goddess, sly and defiant, could not withstand the brutish perfection of his imperium.

The paddle followed. Wide, implacable, blooming fire across my skin, each blow a staccato of heat that traced my curves with measured insistence. He wielded it with the finesse of an artist, alternating edge and broad surface, drawing cries from me I had never known I could produce. Each impact was followed by his hands, reverent, studied caresses that sent shivers through me, more potent than the sting itself. 

At one point, I became painfully aware of their eyes, the god and goddess folded together on the chaise, silent, observing, tracing me with a quiet, inscrutable intensity. Were they judging me? Displeased? Indifferent? Or were they silently reveling in the ritual I craved yet feared to expose? My chest tightened, my stomach fluttering with distressed butterflies, and unbearable trepidation.

And at the head of the bed, my lover, how would he see me, unguarded, my soul bared to a darkness I could not combat, to a fire that both demanded and terrified me? The thought clawed at me, a bitter thread of fear twisted with need.

As my nerves screamed, my Inner Goddess braced against the very real torment of my longing. I ached, not for comfort, but for the rite, for the pain that promised restoration, for the sweet, honed freedom that only this moment could grant. Guilt clutched my ribs even as desire lanced through me, each heartbeat a thrum of shame and hunger intertwined. Choosing myself, even for this brief, unbearable instant, felt like both rebellion and salvation.

With an acute exhalation, I attempted to bury my anxieties back in their box, yet they lingered stubbornly, like shadows at the periphery of my vision. And still, I allowed myself to yield, to the session, to the ritual’s cimmerian perfection, to the need that burned hotter than any fear. I was torn between who I had been and who I dared to become, between the judgment of others and the undeniable, aching pull of my own choices. My will was fragile yet persistent, thoroughly captivated by the cathartic, intoxicating inevitability of this capitulation: to be known, to be entirely, irrevocably, and exquisitely myself. This moment would belong to me.

Then, the flogger. Its tails skittered over me like a murmuration of serpents, teasing, lashing, flicking between thighs, along the swell of my buttocks. My body ached with scabrous intensity, alive with each impact, each caress, each oscillation of fire threading through me. I inhaled slowly, exhaled studiously, learning the periodicity of rising and falling, surrendering to the agony only to have it pulled taut again.

The spatula came next, slashing sharp bursts between my inner thighs, kindling a fire that clawed at every nerve and refused name or reason. I rose onto tiptoe with each startling strike, muscles taut, teetering, breath hitching as my body recoiled in desperate surrender. Every motion was a battlefield, between craving and dread, need and shame, pleasure and the sting that made me flinch. I could not tell whether I loathed it or adored it, only that it possessed me utterly, leaving me raw, shaking, and unteathered. My senses were ablaze, each strike an inhuman hymn, each touch a devouring command, and I was powerless, quivering beneath the relentless importunity of him, knowing at once terror and a hunger I could not challenge.

His voice, gravelly and low, prowled through my thoughts like a shadowed wolf, curling and twisting through the web of my mind. Each word was a tooth, gentle yet sharp, grazing the edges of reason, sinking into craving, bending my fear into pining, my hesitation into greedy obedience. He praised. He commanded. 

“You can take more.”

“Good girl.”

“Do you think you are done?” He growled at the cusp of my ear.

Each syllable circled me, predator and hunt entwined, unraveling my thoughts while my body responded without consent. My spine shivered, knees weakened, breath caught in tattered, shallow gasps. Desire pooled between my thighs, trembling in time with the bloodthirsty cadence, and I felt the slow vacillation, tension rising like a storm, then ebbing only to surge again. My fingers clenched the sheets, hips inching involuntarily toward the phantom weight of his presence, chest rising and falling in sync with the snap of his wrist, my soul strung between torment and delight.

I nodded mutely to his lingering question, no, shook my head. Gods, what was the right answer? My Inner Goddess lay pale and utterly suspended, drawn in the orbit of the wolf’s cruel rotation: every whisper a circling, claiming, demanding force, every pause a temptation to collapse entirely into his dominion, every word a pulse through mind and body alike. I existed only to feel, to ache, to burn, endlessly.

The tools struck again, perhaps the same, perhaps another, but it scarcely mattered. Each blow was followed by the glide of his hands over my crimsoned skin as though pain itself bowed to his touch. It was an accent that tethered me even as it unmoored me, twisting sensation into mania. His voice poured through me, low and inexorable, until I could no longer tell where I ended and he began. Word by word, stroke by stroke, he unmade the burden of my will, grafting in its place his remonstrance, his insistence, his inexorable decree. I was unpinned, rewritten, an emptied vessel adrift, released from all responsibility, wafting within the sweet annihilation of my own oblivion.

And then, it ceased. Silence fell, thick and velvet, shrouding the air with a finality that reverberated louder than any strike. The air itself quivered with the ghost of each blow. My flesh still thrummed, welts and bruises singing their feral, lingering music. I could barely stand, lungs ragged, heart hammering as though I had run to the edge of the world and back.

His hands, stern just moments before, became astonishingly compassionate, gliding across my inflamed flesh. Fingers traced each welt, lingering like a priest honoring sacred text, pressing into the raw sting until my breath shuddered, then drawing back in deliberate, reverent circles that coaxed shivers sparking all the way to my toes. My flesh smarted beneath the paradox of bite and balm, interwoven so seamlessly that I could no longer discern one from the other. Sweat cooled in slender rivulets, mingling with the salt of my tears.

The bindings fell away, the blindfold lifted, and in a heartbeat, I was gathered, drawn helplessly against the fortress of his chest, folded into sinew and unrelenting strength. There I sagged, overwrought beneath the sudden tide of release, of exhaustion, of the delirious triumph swelling within my Inner Goddess. We had not broken, we had not uttered the safe word, and yet I felt weak and exposed, trembling in the hollows he had carved open within me.

Tears welled, not born of sorrow, but the raw distillation of a soul stripped to its purest essence: surrender transfigured into devotion, torment alchemized into tenderness too vast for words. In the Demigod’s arms, I was no longer prey nor plaything. I was supplicant, cherished, terrifyingly small, achingly mortal within his immortal steadiness. Fire continued to course through me, not merely sensation but scripture, etched in contusions, woven into tremors, pulsing like a gothic liturgy, each throb a reminder of the rites endured.

Even as I sagged against him, spent and humming with aftershocks, every moan, every shiver, every pulse of surrender was a benediction. My skin still glowed where fingers, palms, and implements had kissed and bitten, every curve alive with fire, every hollow a furnace of sensation. Time could not claim this; memory could not undo the molten sculpture etched into me.

I was unbearably fragile, achingly human, suspended between the sharp cut of pain and the dizzying gravity of worship, between mortal vulnerability and the intoxicating brush of divinity. My body quivered, a creature of heat and breath, every sigh a tremor, every nerve alive with the lingering bite of him. I existed in that liminal space, undone yet enthralled, lost to myself, consumed by the sacred, dark fire that lingered long after his hands had left me.

V. The Night

The night blurred at the edges. Chilled wine touched my lips, mingling with the sweetness of fruit and the faint ripple of laughter, the distant echo of others threading through the haze, the ordinary world bleeding gently into the edges of my delirium, mingling with the lingering salt of sweat and tears.

And then I was in bed, My Love curled behind me, a steadfast bastion against the lingering terrors of the night, his adoration woven over me like a promise I could not name, tethering me to the mortal world even as every nerve still thrummed with fire and memory. Sleep swept over me in slow, velvet insistence, carrying me toward distant stars, while my Inner Goddess, sated and heavy, folded her wings about her and sank into shadowed reverie. 

At the last moment, my mind flickered, aware of him, of myself, of the shared communion with others, of the ritual we had endured, wanting to dissect and examine every second. But my Inner Goddess stirred, rustling her feathers with a self-satisfied, almost insolent smile at the corner of her lips. She required no reflection, brooked no doubt. She blinked once, imperially, at me, then shuttered her eyes. Perhaps she was right. I drew in a slow, deliberate breath, loosening my grip, letting the heavy weight of the night seep through me, and finally, I let it all go.

Until next time, XO. Elsie