December 2025 – Listen Here

Sometimes there are nights so deliriously opulent that language buckles beneath them.
How does one chronicle rapture when the body becomes the only honest historian?

Last night was one of those nights.

Even now, as I write, I can feel the memories pulse through me again – the moment when a broad-shouldered godling lifted me as though I were spun from thistledown. That breathless, astonished laugh escaped before I could bite it back, legs looping around his powerful hips. His stride: unhurried, oak-sure. His arms: a cradle of warm dominion carrying me back into the darkened room where everything else fell away.

And then – the bed, the fleece, the quiet thrum of inevitability.

I remember sinking back into the mattress, clad in nothing but a whisper of black filigree that barely veiled my breasts, lace slipping in decadent strands over my hips, satin clinging to my torso like a lover reluctant to let go. And there he stood at the foot of the bed – an Olympian carved from heat and shadow, titan, immense, every line of him gilded by lamplight.

Watching me.

Absorbing the sight of me with his eyes before he laid a hand on my body once more.

My left foot rested on the wide plane of his chest, and he touched it as if it were an artifact from some long-lost temple – kneading, kissing, trailing heat along calf, knee, the tender seam of inner thigh. His mouth traveled back toward my toes, each kiss slow as dusk falling over a cathedral, and then… he took them into his mouth, worshipping my tiny toes with a decadent patience that turned my spine to honey.

Rich chocolate – melting, spilling, undone – that was what I became.

He repeated the ritual on the other foot, slower, deeper, as though savoring a forbidden scripture most men never bother to read. And when he finally let his lips wander to places no mortal ever pays such reverent attention to… I felt every nerve inside me ignite like a constellation bowing to a god.

How do I describe the sensation of a mouth at my breast – a tongue stroking, tasting, laughing softly against my skin in a way that makes my breath fracture? Not desperate – no, never that. Something darker, smoother. A silk-and-shadow lull that sent my eyes fluttering and my pulse scattering like startled birds.

And then there were the kisses.

Kissing an Olympian is not kissing. It is lips moving on lips. It is surrender wrapped in heat. It is being swallowed whole by sensation.

He tasted of campfire smoke and haunted forests, of winter bark, Iron resolve, and old myths. My fingers slid into his hair, his arms circled my waist, and my body leaned into the breadth of him as if trying to memorize every inch before reason returned.

But reason didn’t return.

How could it, with worship rising from below and hunger looming above?

The Woodsman knelt between my thighs with that intoxicating focus, tongue tracing prayers he never spoke aloud along my sensitive skin. And above me, Jack’s voice, that low thunderous murmur, curled down my spine until my back arched in helpless answer.

He hovered above my lips, his magnificent cock poised like an oracle, and as my lips parted around him – tasting that first dew of sweetness – I knew…I knew…he would not last. The certainty curled my toes in wicked triumph. Sovereignty. Pure, exquisite power humming through me like an enchantment.

How can I describe the communion of three souls?

One between my legs, feasting.
One above me, iron hardening in my throat.
And me – stretched between them, offering what was sacred in my body to gods old and new.

Call it indulgence, but that word is too small.

Call it sin, but that misses the sanctity of it. 

To me, it was ceremony.

A rite of breath and pulse and trembling surrender.

A night where every brush of skin felt holy.

There are no sufficient phrases for the kind of ravishing that leaves my tender places swollen, glimmering, breath-shaken, throat raw. First taken by one Olympian, then by the other – their rhythms different, their hungers distinct, their devotion equally merciless.

How do I describe the feral crescendo, the moment Jack’s hand tightens at my waist, grip bruising with need, his movements unraveling into desperate, primal abandon? When even as my own climax breaks me open, I manage to clench around him – to seize him – and he erupts inside my in molten, shuddering waves while my other hand strokes the hardening length of the second god, coaxing his own impending ruin.

And then…

Nor can ink capture that final ascent, that final, imperial moment.

Straddling the Olympian Woodsman, his body spanning the length of the bed beneath me, impaling myself upon him until my breath fractured. Until the bruised gate of my body welcomed him to the hilt. Riding him in raw, ruined abandon, letting each rolling surge of undulating bliss claim me with imperial force. Until moans rip out of me in ragged, ravenous bursts and I ride him into oblivion, wave after wave of shattering bliss.

Afterward… the hush.

Three bodies folded into each other, limbs tangled, breath softening, skin cooling under the winter air – that suspended, sacred afterglow where hearts confess what tongues cannot.

There will never be enough words for a night like that. 

Everything I’ve written is only an echo – a pale scratching on parchment.

The truth of it lives in my bones.
Replaying.
Haunting.
Keening for the moment the Olympians return to claim me again.

Until next time, XO. Elsie