December 2025 – Listen Here

There exists, I have learned, a force capable not of calming my Inner Goddess, but of chilling her regard…of sending her into a stately retreat, where all comfort and warmth is withheld. Not jealousy, though many would wager upon it. Nor illness alone, though my flesh has known its share of malaise while she yet stirred beneath my skin, sinuous and insistent. No! This was a colder offense, one that does not shout or scorch, but settles like frost upon marble, leaving everything intact and yet profoundly altered.

Presumption.

It arrived cloaked in confidence, perfumed with triumph, and spoke too loudly of access. Bragging, not the buoyant, boyish ardor that delights and emboldens me, but almost the coarse tallying of conquest…the kind that presumes possession where only permission has ever existed. It was not the celebration of union that wounded me; it was the careless exhibition of it. The assumption that proximity grants entitlement. That station ensures abundance.

My Inner Goddess recoiled in shock. In that moment, I felt her withdraw. The room seemed suddenly too cold, and the world too small to contain her rage. A glacial fury settled where desire once coiled, and she regarded the world from behind an aristocratic chill, chin lifted, eyes unforgiving. How dare anyone, consort or stranger, speak of my body as though it were a certainty rather than a sacred choice? How dare intimacy be paraded, not cherished, and worse still, brandished before those with whom I have entertained and may yet entertain again?

I was not an artifact to be boasted of in some imagined antechamber of men. I was not rendered available by rank, nor bound by proximity. I was chosen only when I chose.

I spoke. My voice did not tremble. The line was drawn with righteous indignation. Apology came in earnest, deep, and sincere. I believed it, with every fiber of my being. And yet, the wound remained. His words soothed the mind, but my body, my Inner Goddess, hung in tension, alert, bristling, unresolved. Even the softest touch, the gentlest embrace, could not reach her throne. She had been affronted, and affront could not be hurried.

Something in me remained estranged.

The following day unfolded with gentleness…arms encircling me upon the sofa, indulgence in whatever diversion I desired, there was the reverent warmth of his hand at my breastbone through the soft drape of winter loungewear. All of it should have called her back. None of it did.

What lingered instead was a sense of betrayal I could not easily name. My Inner Goddess, once so delighted by ritual, could scarcely bear to disrobe before him come morning. The show, he called it…his cherished vigil at dawn, rising early only to watch me dress, the opening act of our long flirtatious days. That augural little theatre now felt unreachable, the curtain stubbornly lowered.

She was wounded, my Inner Goddess. Offended in a way that had nothing to do with forgiveness and everything to do with dignity.

As the work day thinned toward its end, I found myself searching for her…hoping to feel her stir again beneath my skin. This estrangement was not how I wished to conclude everything I held dear. Not the year. Not the story. Not myself.

By the time dusk ceded its hold upon the city, and I found myself before Jack’s door, the long hours of labor had slackened my ire into something quieter, more treacherous. Wine had softened the talons of indignation, loosening them but not freeing me entirely. My thoughts still circled his presumption like ravens returning to a battlefield, yet my body had begun its own, contrary negotiations. Beneath my skin, my Inner Goddess stirred again…not triumphant, not whole, but achingly awake. Lust for flesh pulsed in my veins. For creatures of injury are often the most voracious and, though bruised, she prowled the corridors of my flesh with her fierce, unrelenting appetite.

I was no longer angry, not truly. I was simply stranded in that inelegant middle ground where righteousness curdles into longing, where pride still stands guard while need slips past it in silence.

When he opened the door, lamplight pooling behind him, I lifted my chin and stepped across the threshold with what I intended to be severity. I announced…absurdly, imperiously…that I intended to take him to bed, but that he was expressly forbidden to enjoy it. Not even a fragment. He would endure my whims, my command, my temper, and might, I added, require maternal consolation afterward.

Jack, wisely and infuriatingly perceptive, did not laugh. His eyes glinted in mischief, yes, but his mouth settled into solemnity as he accepted my decree with exaggerated gravity. He vowed himself nothing more than an instrument, a convenience, a sacrificial altar upon which I might lay down my unrest. His obedience disarmed me more thoroughly than defiance ever could.

I led him by the hand as though I were escorting a captive prince, my heels striking the stone with a cadence that admitted no dissent. Each step rang with purpose. This was not an invitation; it was a summons.

Within his chamber, I allowed my garments to surrender to gravity…silk, lace, and petticoat sliding from my body with a hush, reluctant, as though they knew what exposure would cost me. They pooled at my feet in soft disgrace, and I did not stoop to retrieve them. 

I kept my heels on…red velvet, white fur trimmed around my ankles like a queen’s indulgence…and informed him this was deliberate. He would endure the sight of my succulent bare legs so adorned, lifted, and parted over the breadth of his bronzed chest, my heels resting with quiet finality upon his shoulders. I felt the hitch of his breath, the subtle tremor beneath me, the unspoken confession that the sight…the sheer, deliberate assertion of my heels…tormented and inflamed him in ways he could not form into words. His desire was sharpened by my command, by the fact that these heels, these instruments of my primacy, were as much a weapon as a lure.

My Inner Goddess savored his torment.

He would bear the exquisite cruelty of my nakedness because I allowed him to see it. He would endure the tyranny of my beauty because I chose not to soften it. The weight upon his body was not merely mine…it was my will, settled there with intention. This moment did not belong to him…not in breath, not in motion, not in desire.

It belonged to me.

He would endure me.

What followed was not tenderness. Not yet.

It was reclamation.

All the wounded sovereignty of my womanhood surged through me…scintillant, imperious, aggrieved. I needed him to comprehend, not through words, but in the fierce arch of my spine, the sharp tremor of my release, that access to me was never granted by proximity, promise, or even love. Even he, my Beloved, might caress only at my behest. It was a coronation I bestowed at my pleasure, and no man, however cherished, could mistake my indulgence for meekness.

The first press of his hard cock against my glistening folds loosened something deep in my spine; a subtle relenting that traveled downward, vertebra by vertebra, until my hips tilted of their own accord. I gave myself permission…not to him, but to my own flesh…to release the sediment of misunderstanding, the residue of wounded dignity. 

Jack understood. Understood that I needed to burn, to utterly melt and reforge. His adamantine hands locked at my hips, and he matched my decree with ruthless fidelity. Every pistoning movement, every devastating spear, was in service to my command. The palpitance was fierce and unsparing. My breath tore free…raw, ragged, too alive to disguise. Heat coiled where anger had nested, no longer corrosive, but alchemical, catalytic.

I poured my indignation into every pulse, every arch of my spine. I closed my eyes, not to vanish, but to concentrate…to wholeheartedly surrender only to my own ravenous will. Sensation swelled: insatiable, imminent, and terrifying. Thought evaporated, leaving only the roar of blood and fire. My slighted Inner Goddess unfurled her mighty wings, reclaiming dominion. The world narrowed to the friction, the undulation, the cool air trailing along my back as molten need pooled low, heavy, inevitable. Somewhere above me, his breath cracked. He moved not for himself but for me, for my ruin and my vindication.

I did not yield.
I opened.

Not in absolution. Not in mercy. But in redemption. Proof that my dignity had not been riven under insult – it had honed itself into a weapon of pleasure, sharp and absolute. As I pressed back into his assault, as I claimed what I required with blistering precision, the bruise of my pride flared pyric and incandescent. My anger did not fade; it transmuted, feeding a different fire…rawer, deeper, unquenchable.

There came a moment when command dissolved entirely. Control shed its ceremonial finery and became something ancient, something chthonic. I allowed him then…not to tend the blaze, but to inhabit it with me. My vision shattered into brilliance; my body argued itself into silence, each objection drowned beneath pleasure that would not be denied its ending.

Somewhere in that explosive crescendo, in the surrender that was not surrender…we found one another again without ceremony, without decree. Our breaths tore loose, harsh and ragged, chests heaving slick with sweat, skin burning and gleaming where it met and slid and struck again. My throat was raw from crying out…my voice broken open, scraped bare by the force of my own taking. Every movement was a necessity, every collision a reckoning. There was no gentling it now. Only heat. Only demand. Only the ruthless truth of flesh remembering itself.

Our pulses aligned, not softly, but violently, hammering together until distance meant nothing. We moved as rivers do when floodwater breaks its banks: unalterable, unapologetic, bearing the accumulated force of all that had sought, and failed, to divert us. Hurt dissolved. Power consolidated. What remained was motion – obdurate, indomitable, and unmistakably our own once more.

When I finally curled into him, cheek resting upon his chest, his breath slow and anchoring beneath my ear, my Inner Goddess did not withdraw.

She rested.

Not unscarred, but restored to her throne.

There lingered still a faint dissonance, not doubt, but a bit of perturbation. What had passed between us was not reconciliation alone; it was a line burnished in flame. I had asserted myself as a woman entire unto herself, one who would never again bend the knee to any man, beloved or otherwise. And in that knowing…in that hard-won regency…for the first time since the unintentional aggrievement, I did not feel lost.

Hours later, almost without preamble, he was there.

Heat. Weight. Him.

His broad, calor body pressed into my chilled alabaster as I slipped beneath the winter sheets, the shock of temperature ripping a sound from my throat before thought could intervene. I shivered both with cold and the nearness of him. The room seemed to constrict around us…walls drawing close, air thickening…every breath amplified, every movement obscene in its clarity. The scent of him: iron-warm skin, male hunger, something dark and ungoverned, flooded my senses. I was lost before he completely settled next to me.

I moved first.

I climbed him with feral urgency, knees biting into the mattress, thighs already glistening with proof of my need, breath tearing in and out of my chest as our eyes locked, no softness, no question. I sank down hard, grinding as I took him fully, his thick cock sheathing itself inside me until there was nowhere left to retreat. The impact shuddered through my spine, and I groaned to the stars above. I rode him mercilessly, rising and falling, taking and taking again, my body demanding in the same instant it surrendered.

Time dissolved. There was no discussion. No negotiation.

Only the atavistic grammar of flesh.

Bodies converged…colliding, clinging, reforming…like rivers that had torn themselves apart for centuries only to find their course again. We met with violence. With need. With souls surging and desperate, stripped of pretense.

My Inner Goddess roared sharp and ravenous, not softened by surrender but sharpened by it. I arched, muscles shredding, shoulders braced as I rode him harder, my exertion singing through bone and tendon. He followed without hesitation…hips driving up, hands clamped at my waist, a quiet alpha who did not seize control, but wielded it in perfect obedience to my body’s demand. 

I was shattering once more, but this time beneath him. My ankles hooked over his shoulders, my knees striking against my shoulders as I drank in the sight of him…eyes dark, jaw tight, restraint stretched thin and gleaming. 

We shifted – fluid, wordless.

I rolled onto my side, and he plunged deep, each tilt of his hips precise, meticulous, as if measuring how far he could push me before the fabric of the night was torn asunder. His swollen cock carved along my channel with brutal precision. Every measured thrust dragged me convulsing to the edge, reason unraveling thread by thread. Then I was prone, abdomen pressed to the sheets, and he claimed me with a rhythm that tore logic from my mind. Every muscle tensed, every nerve screamed, every inch of me ignited. I teetered on the edge of sanity.

He rearranged me from the inside out.

His presence was overwhelming. He did not merely occupy me; he impressed himself into every sinew, every quiver, with ruthless, sacred intent. Each movement, each weighty drive, each resounding strike of flesh against flesh inscribed a map I could not resist, a cartography of fire, dominion, and yielding. Each drive of his hips ripped breath from my lungs, each withdrawal of his impossibly thickening cock a torment, each return a tenacious assault upon every limit I had ever imagined, shattering them into incandescent shards that glimmered like fallen stars beneath my flesh.

I felt the shift before it happened…the tightening of his grip on my quivering flesh.

One fist laced through my hair, a living harness, drawing my head back just enough to expose my throat. The other arm locked across my lower back, palm crushing me down as his weight bore into me, hips straining, body trembling with the effort to hold himself at bay. Each thrust became an argument, a declaration, a consuming fire.

We broke together.

I screamed – throat flayed raw, lungs tearing at the air, every filament of my body shuddering in revolt and rapture. He groaned, a sound dragged from somewhere reverent and ruined. My climax ripped through me in violent surges, lightning arcing along spine and hip and marrow, and he followed…utterly undone, trembling against me as though the force of it had unmade gravity itself. We were ragged and radiant, bestial and sanctified, intimate and indomitable in the same splintured breath.

I was lost inside it. Inside him.

It was feral. It was rite. It was uncharted and devastatingly familiar. Each gasp, each fractured sound became punctuation in the brutal liturgy we etched into the dark. Dominion and surrender collapsed into a single, indivisible truth…no longer opposites, no longer separate, but fused beyond argument.

And then…nothing but us.

Even past the apex, my body refused stillness. Tremors seized me, muscles rebelling, nerves left bare and blazing. My skin thrummed with electricity…each trace of his hand a spark, every touch a fresh conflagration. The ecstasy lingered still, throbbing and sentient, a creature unwilling to recede, thrumming through my veins like molten silver, reluctant to release its dominion.

When I curled into him, ever the little spoon, the sheets clinging damp and heavy, the world still rocked with aftershocks. His muscular arms circled, certain, enclosing me just a fraction tighter…as if anchoring us both. His heartbeat rolled languorous and even, a tide lapping me toward somnolence.

My Inner Goddess, wings folded at last, reclined upon her velvet chaise. I felt her there…purring with triumph, every feathered fold a testament to autarchy reclaimed. The throne was settled. The dominion unquestioned.

We lay suspended in the aftermath…tremors fading, breath mingling, the echo of our communion vibrating through mesh and marrow. Two bodies. Two wills. One indomitable pulse.

I closed my eyes and surrendered…not to him, not to thought, not to the world…but to Morpheus. To warmth that seeped into every sinew, to breath that rose and fell in perfect modulation with my own, to the tender, irrevocable dark that enfolded me like velvet. My lifeblood slowed, the residual fire ebbing into quiet embers that glowed beneath skin and spine. Limbs slackened, muscles uncurled, and a profound, unshakable contentment settled into my chest. Every shiver, every tremor, became a hymn of peace; every exhalation, a soft benediction. Here, in the sanctuary of shared heat and hard-won dominion, I felt my heart align with its own rhythm, finally at rest, finally whole, finally sovereign.

Until next time, XO. Elsie