August 2026 – Listen Here

There are three bright droplets of blood upon his pillowcase.

The first two are no larger than the bowl of a lowercase p; the third has spread a fraction wider, an extravagant ruby against the immaculate white. I lift my head in alarm, startled by the force of his bite. Ordinarily such attentions leave no more than a phantom trace of copper upon my tongue, a fleeting metallic whisper easily dismissed. But these are visible. Crimson. Indisputable. Three tiny jewels scattered across his pillow like evidence entered before a very private court. 

I had been riding him when his fingers laced behind my head and drew me down to his mouth. What began as a kiss rapidly abandoned every civilized intention. It deepened into a frantic contest of mouths and breath until his teeth caught my lower lip at the very instant his hips surged upward beneath me with such force that I swear the obscene man reached somewhere in the vicinity of my rib cage. 

I tore my mouth from his and buried my face against his shoulder, my cry disappearing into his skin while the ferocious savagery of the moment raged through me like a firestorm. 

And apparently, somewhere in the midst of it, he drew blood. 

I stare at them longer than three drops of blood reasonably deserve.

For nearly seventy days, I have been perfecting the art of disappearance. Not dying, precisely. Nothing so dramatic. Merely becoming increasingly translucent. Moving through one room and into the next. Answering messages. Going to work. Feeding people. Keeping appointments. Performing all the necessary ceremonies of existence while privately wondering whether a woman might fade by increments until eventually there was scarcely enough of her left to cast a shadow.

And now – 

three drops of me upon white linen.

My blood.

Bright. Brazen. Living.

The sight of it strikes some primitive bell inside me.

Oh.

There I am… and I like it. 

My hips resume their languorous undulation as I surrender once more to the indecency of his body beneath mine. There is an almost perverse obscenity in the realization: I have spent weeks fading by increments, and tonight I am leaving evidence. 

Somewhere amid our carnal ferocity, a thought slips quite inappropriately through my head.

My bestie has a playdate with him in the morning.

As children, we are forever instructed upon the virtue of sharing our toys, and although the god beneath me is certainly not my toy – and would undoubtedly object to being classified amongst dolls, wooden horses, and other communal nursery property – I am nevertheless inordinately tickled by the prospect of sharing him. She will be here tomorrow. She will have her own adventures with this god in mortal flesh. Perhaps she will discover entirely different ways to make him groan her name. The thought ought not please me nearly as much as it does. 

It does.

The knowledge makes me feral. My Inner Goddess is rapturous as my imagination supplies the scene with indecent generosity: my beautiful friend in my place, her lithe body astride him, eyes clenched as her back arches and her breasts thrust forward, her body convulsing beneath whatever particular blasphemy this god chooses to inflict upon her. I can almost see her surrendering to it, discovering for herself what that formidable body is capable of and why I am currently regarding three ruby droplets upon a pillowcase as a religious experience. The image of her enjoying him only feeds the ferocity already coursing through me, adding another wonderfully licentious current to an evening already overflowing with them.

There is no jealousy in the thought. Quite the contrary. I am enchanted by it. I want this for her. I want her thoroughly spoiled by the experience and privately delighted by whatever adventures she and this god devise together.

Tomorrow he may be hers to torment.

Tonight, however, he is mine.

I stretch his arms above his head and clasp my tiny hands around his wrists. My fingertips cannot even meet. To claim I have him pinned is such preposterous fiction that I nearly smile at my own audacity. The man has more than one hundred pounds of raw muscle on me. With one dismissive movement he could reverse our circumstances, bury me beneath him, and make a mockery of this temporary sovereignty. 

I know this because he has already done it.

I know, too, that he shall do it again.

But for this rare interval, we indulge the charade. I am sovereign; he is captive, a god who has graciously consented to regard my hands as shackles while I ride him as though he were the last stallion left upon the earth and I have been entrusted with carrying us straight through the gates of Heaven. 

Or Hell.

At present, I cannot imagine why anyone thought the distinction important.

My form rises and falls over his, my hair spilling forward as my thighs grip his flanks, every movement announcing me back to myself. By then, the bed has become nearly beyond redemption.

The waterproof blanket lies scandalously askew, the bedding saturated and rumpled into hopeless disarray. I make one halfhearted attempt to straighten it, tugging uselessly at an edge because, after everything this god has done for me tonight, some absurd remnant of my caretaking nature still cannot bear the thought of leaving him to sleep in a cold, wet bed. 

The god does not share my concern.

I scarcely manage a single tug before his hands seize my hips. There is nothing courteous in the interruption, no patience whatsoever for linens or my ridiculous attempt at tending to them. He hauls me backward, my petite body offering laughably little resistance against a man built like some ancient deity carved for conquest. One moment I am fussing with his bedding; the next I am dragged flush against the Olympian architecture of those Adonis hips, whatever domestic thought I possessed summarily extinguished.

The blanket can drown for all he cares.

He wants me.

And there is a distinctly primal gratification in being wanted by a creature who, at that particular moment, appears to have forgotten everything else exists.

I am taken at the side of the bed, another feral entry in an increasingly indecent ledger, another emphatic declaration from a body that apparently has no intention whatsoever of fading politely into the wallpaper.

And by Olympus, having his iron cock inside me.

There are experiences the mind observes from a decorous distance, making neat journal entries for later examination, and then there are those that seize possession of the entire body and leave thought scrambling inelegantly behind. He enters me first with that formidable breadth at the crown, my pussy already slick from his mouth and the earlier undoing he wrought there, forcing my body to accommodate him by degrees before the rest of his thickness follows. His thumbs press into my abdomen as he governs the intrusion, and there is always that first astonished instant when my body seems to wonder whether I have somehow forgotten his dimensions since the last time. Then comes the yielding: the deep, involuntary surrender as he presses farther, stretching me around the prodigious girth of him until the fullness seems to occupy every available inch of me.

He does not merely sheath himself to the hilt. Wordlessly, he demands that my body answer him.

And it does.

Muscle gives beneath the invasion. My breath catches somewhere behind my teeth. My thighs draw taut as every inward inch seems to illuminate another dormant nerve, until abstraction becomes inaccessible. Grief cannot follow me here. Neither can analysis, responsibility, memory, nor the endless tribunal forever convening inside my skull. There is only flesh answering flesh: the immense pressure at his deepest reach, the dragging withdrawal that leaves my body acutely aware of every fraction surrendered, and then the exquisite fullness of receiving him again.

It is astonishing how difficult it is to disappear while one’s body is shouting – crying out, arching, soaring beyond the reach of thought with every breath. 

That, perhaps, is what enthralls me most. The ceaseless machinery of a firstborn daughter – the cataloguing, anticipating, tending, calculating, remembering – is finally muted. For once there is nothing to solve, no one to carry, no consequence waiting three moves ahead for me to intercept.

Tonight, my body stages a rebellion against all of it.

Enough.

It drags me bodily into the present and bars every exit, leaving me nowhere to retreat but into my own skin.

And, gods help me, I don’t want to be anywhere else.

Later, drunk upon my own euphoria and having evolved into a succubus in human form, I make another audacious bid for authority. I push him backward against the pillows – enormously pleased with myself for accomplishing this feat – and for one dangerous instant contemplate climbing astride him again. 

My Inner Goddess is giddy at the proposal. She is an avaricious creature with no regard for mortal limitations and would happily continue these proceedings until the stars themselves winked out. 

My corporeal self, however, has apparently unionized.

Absolutely not.

Stamina is flagging, muscles have begun submitting formal grievances, and my poor, thoroughly overworked pussy is no longer accustomed to receiving this magnitude of virile attention, though there was a time – perhaps once upon a full moon – when she possessed considerably greater endurance. The spirit remains magnificently willing. The flesh has begun threatening litigation.

Very well. We shall improvise.

I kneel between his legs instead, face flushed, eyes glittering, my sapphire curls swept high atop my head and secured with the black band liberated from my wrist. Or, rather, I mean to kneel between them. Some depraved inspiration intervenes before I quite arrive there and suggests that I straddle one of those tree-trunk thighs instead. Apparently all surviving judgment departed sometime around the waterproof blanket, because the idea strikes me as inspired.

So I do.

I lower my mouth to his erect cock, the rest of my attention narrowing to the man beneath me as the evening acquires yet another form of abandon. What begins as exploration becomes increasingly voracious: my hand fists around his girthy base while my mouth seals over him, tongue flicking and lapping as I devote myself to eliciting every response I can draw from this magnificent creature. I want to feel his body betray him beneath my attention. I want the god who could overpower me without exertion to have his own evidence that this diminutive succubus has teeth. 

Meanwhile, my hips – or, rather, my thoroughly saturated apex – discover his leg. 

At first I scarcely register what I am doing. I am moving for the sheer voluptuousness of movement, because my body has remembered what it is to feel ecstatic and vibrant. Then the pressure of his calf beneath me catches perfectly against my swollen sex, and the response tears through me so abruptly that my concentration fractures. 

Well. That is interesting.

Naturally, I investigate.

Soon my hips are undulating over the formidable length of his calf while my mouth maintains its own occupation, and I find myself attempting to conduct two separate symphonies with one thoroughly delirious nervous system. Mouth and hips find a cadence, lose it, recover it again, each new rush from between my thighs scattering whatever fragment of thought I had managed to assemble above. 

It may look ridiculous, and a very tiny, mortifying portion of my brain would like that objection formally entered into the record. The god, however, does not push me away. Quite the contrary: his answer reaches me as a guttural sound from somewhere deep within that enormous chest, his cock deepening in color as the first saline trace gathers upon my tongue, and that is permission enough for the succubus currently presiding over mine. 

Shamelessly, I abandon myself to the bizarre magnificence of it – the slick friction beneath me, his primal reactions, my own gathering frenzy – until there is no graceful choreography left to maintain. I am chasing the crest now, wanting that holy convergence where thought finally ceases, and the body simply shatters into blinding white oblivion. 

When it overtakes me, it does so with humiliating abundance. The sudden gush drenches his leg while I remain wrapped around him, and for one extraordinary instant I am caught between exhilaration, bewilderment, and the belated realization that perhaps this particular development was not included in the evening’s itinerary. 

I attempt to apologize – invigorated, mystified, and just embarrassed enough that some vestigial scrap of manners apparently wishes to account for itself – but the apology never makes it past my lips. How could it? His cock fills my mouth to such extravagant capacity that even breath comes sparingly around his girth; an apology would require considerably more air than I presently possess. 

Because I am too high – not from the wine, and not even from him, although the heavens know the man has contributed substantially to the evening’s delinquency.

I am intoxicated by me.

This ravenous, indecorous woman – the one who stains immaculate pillows crimson, pins gods with hands too small to encircle their wrists, rides stallions, destroys bedding, feasts and drinks and fucks and tastes and wants, then shamelessly uses an immortal’s leg for her own gratification because she damn well wants to – I could howl to the Moon Goddess herself: witness me rise.

So I chase the next crest because I can, because my body can, because tonight I have no interest in being responsible, elegant, sensible, or healed. Introspection may come collecting tomorrow; bah, tonight I have no intention of answering the knock. Tonight I want the extravagance of inhabiting every inch of myself. I want appetite and abandon, flushed cheeks and tangled sapphire hair, wine upon my tongue and crimson upon white linen. I want to be corporeal, unequivocal, brazenly undeniable. 

I want to be incarnate.

The three ruby droplets remain upon his pillow, though by now they seem almost quaint beside the abundance of evidence we have accumulated. The sheets are a catastrophe. The waterproof blanket has surrendered all hope of rehabilitation. His calf is drenched. My hair has become a sapphire riot around my face, my muscles are exhausted, and my dignity disappeared so many hours ago that I cannot be bothered to mourn its passing. Prowling and unsated, my Inner Goddess is already petitioning for an extension of the affair despite having been emphatically overruled by the mortal vessel she inhabits.

And beneath all of that splendid wreckage, I am incandescent – not restored, not miraculously cured of every ache awaiting me beyond this bed, but startlingly, extravagantly present. Some long-displaced part of me has returned to its rightful orbit. Tonight my body has answered with appetite, blood, sweat, wine, want, absurdity, ecstasy, and enough evidence to make disappearance an untenable argument.

Those three crimson drops were merely the first proof that I am gloriously, wondrously alive.

Until next time, XO. Elsie