July 2025

I stopped counting after the sixteenth orgasm, but I know Diana shattered that number. 

I arrived hot, glistening with summer humidity, my temples pulsing with a weary ache medication had dulled to a throb. The sun had scorched my skin, but it was the smolder of my spirit that felt most volatile. I was not nervous, not exactly. The Temple of the exquisite Goddess Diana loomed before me. My fingers hesitated slightly from uncertainty. How does one conduct herself in the private court of a Goddess? Not just any goddess, but Diana, sovereign of discipline and delight, archer of the soul’s wildest longings?

Olympian gods had always been more manageable. They swaggered with appetites as loud as their thunder. A strategic moan, a teasing shift of lace across a hipbone, and their divine certainty crumbled like imported confection on the tongue. But a goddess? Especially one of Diana’s regal bearing and coiled restraint? What could I, a mortal, offer one such as her?

I had been vulnerable in our last exchange, stripping my soul bare, confessing my personal unraveling of my mind. She responded not with pity, but with promise: “I will take care of it all, darling. I’ll handle the rest.” And she had mentioned treats.

After a brief offering to her twin guardians, sleek, ominous creatures, jubilant protectors who adored their mistress, Diana received me. Her presence was not announced with trumpets or riotous fanfare, but with the stillness that could calm the tightest of nerves. Wordlessly, she guided me up the winding staircase to the second story. The Room of Pleasure and Pain awaited, steeped in dimming sunlight and perfumed shadows. Here was no chaos, no bright frenzy…only animus.

My Inner Goddess stirred, but did not rise. She sensed the sacred hierarchy, and in deference, chose silence…uncertain of her role in a temple not her own. There was no rivalry, no rebellion. She was no stranger to submission, often preferring it, even craving it… But here, in the presence of Diana, she did not know how to present herself. Should she kneel? Should she vanish? Or would the Goddess summon her forth like smoke from an offered flame?

Every inch of the room warbled anticipation. Erotic tapestries shimmered across the walls, depictions of sacred rites, bound flesh, mouths parted in ecstasy. Implements of pleasure and punishment rested with sacred patience upon polished tables: obsidian-handled floggers, velvet-lined cuffs, willowy coiled rope. The St. Andrew’s cross in the corner gleamed like a throne. My eyes drank it all in, but weariness dulled the edges of both curiosity and fear. I didn’t want to know. Not yet. I didn’t want to choose.

A voice in the dark recesses of my mind gently urged me to speak soft boundaries aloud. But my will, brittle with exhaustion, ignored it. Perhaps, in the hands of a goddess, what once might have been a lisped no could become a door to sacred deliverance.

Diana, ever the huntress, did not pounce. She did not strip me or silence me with the fervent press of lips. Instead, we lounged. At the foot of her grand bed and we simply talked. Her voice was an opiate, sultry and honey-rich, describing wild travels and glimmering people, mischief, and marvels. Her fingers moved lazily across my thigh or arm. A somewhat idle motion, absent of insinuation, but charged with unspeakable orison.

I laughed. I chimed in. Slowly, my spine uncurled. My lungs remembered how to drink air without gasping. My own wanderlust stirred, keen to walk the roads her feet had long since mapped.

Then came the sibilation.

“Shall we get started?”

I blushed. I forgot how to swallow. My pulse surged and my demons rose up, gnawing and shrieking: “You’re not worthy. She doesn’t truly want this. She’s changed her mind.” I slammed my mental shields against their noise. I refused to be overwhelmed in the temple of a goddess who had requested me. I breathed into the vestibule of my ribcage. Dropped my shoulders. Let myself be.

She handed me a robe – a decadent thing of white susurant threaded with black, trimmed in lace that kissed the wrist and hem like breath. Her voice, barely above a hush, instructed me to change, to wash, to return.

When I stepped back into the sanctum, the room throbbed with readiness, an invisible pulse pressing against my skin. Thunder grumbled in the distance, low and sated. Rain traced slow, languorous fingers down the tall windows. The fire crackled, content to exist. It was all a clever mirage, but a welcome one. Every detail bore her desire, and that alone was a balm to my soul. I rolled my shoulders, coaxing loose the last stubborn strands of strain, aching to be unmade and remade.

Then she appeared.

Diana. Raven-haired, crowned in blue-black curls and quiet command. Stray tendrils danced about her face and throat, diaphanous as smoke. Her gown, dark as an enthralled forest, clung to every curve with the audacity of worship. It kissed her hips, skimmed her thighs, then dripped around her like spilled ink. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her eyes told me everything.

Tonight, I would be undone.

Her rites complete, she halted before me, an apparition of grace and quiet command.

One unhurried hand lifted, curling around the collar of my robe as if drawing open the petals of a rare nocturnal flower. I tilted my chin, my eyes not quite meeting her radiant ones. I both froze as I leaned into the heat of her body and fumbled, suddenly forgetting what to do with my arms. Did I wrap them around her in a tight embrace around her waist, crushing her lips to mine? Did I remain still and offer the goddess the fullness of my womanhood?

She chose for me.

Her lips brushed mine, a susurration of contact, feather-light and devastating. The restraint of it shattered me. A tremor rippled through my core, and I had to clench my jaw to hold in the moan that clawed up my throat. Sweet gods, her lips. Softer than rose petals at dusk. Softer than a sigh exhaled against sacred skin.

Her hands began their gradual pilgrimage,  not claiming, not greedy, but ghosting. A breath more than a touch. A provocation. I quivered beneath her fingers, unsure if I’d conjured their passage from want alone, or if something older had stirred, something buried subliminally, half-sleeping and aching to rise. Each glancing brush struck a hidden match within me, igniting a fuse that wound languid and sinful through my core, sensual and maddening.

The Goddess Diana wasn’t merely touching me.

She was coaxing forth my Inner Goddess from the shadowed alcove where she had knelt in silence, seducing her from stillness with a devotion that bordered on holy. Each gossamer pass of her hand was a psalm murmured against my skin. Each near-touch, a liturgy that shivered through my bones.

She read me like scripture, torpid and aching and precise. She held me like a relic. She cherished me as though my flesh were its own temple, hallowed and hungered for.

And gods help me, I wanted to offer myself entirely, to succumb to her every whim.

She slipped the robe from my shoulders in a single, prescribed motion, and the silk gave a hushed sigh as it slid down my body. For a moment, she held it suspended between her fingers, those long, elegant fingers that moved like smoke and storm, and then returned it to its hook, but with the calm certainty of a predator folding back wings before the pounce.

I stood bare in the center of the room, not ashamed, but untethered. Unguarded. I no longer knew what I was supposed to be. My Inner Goddess, once bold and commanding, offered no counsel or guidance. She only lingered, silent and watchful… or perhaps already brought low, already on her knees in the presence of something more powerful than pride.

Diana lifted a length of rope from the table like it was a rosary, but rather than beads, it was formed of slender cords, expertly twisted into a pattern too intricate for my eyes to decipher, a beauty coiled with appetence. It was just shorter than the length of my arm, and as she joined its ends into a loop, it formed a quiet, solemn circle,  a halo spun not for angels, but for those who dared to bend the knee. 

She said nothing. Instead, she stepped directly in front of me and placed it over the crown of my head. I inhaled sharply as it wiggled down, catching in my hair, gliding over my ears, settling finally at the base of my throat. It kissed the hollow just above my collarbones, that dainty place where pulse meets shadow. 

I inhaled. The collar flexed with my breath, like a live thing.

And then, she pulled.

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. I melted into her lips like wax meeting flame, mind untethering, hips already tilting forward in search of more.

And yet beneath the ache and press, I was unraveling. My mind flickered in quiet revolt. I had never, ever been collared by another.

Once, in a past so far removed it feels fossilized now, someone had given me one. It sleeps, tucked away in a box, alongside other ghosts I rarely rouse. Another time, I had chosen one for myself,  a moment of impish impulse. I had placed it at my own throat in offering to the one I’d chosen to wield it. My control. My terms. Then lifted it away, setting it aside when I deemed the moment closed.

This was entirely different. But this… this was not that. This was not negotiated. This was not symbolic. This was her.

A goddess.

My ribs barely moved, lungs locked in stillness, waiting for my body to object, to clench, to flash with terror. But no alarm came. Just breathe. Just heat. Just the felicity of her hands. I exhaled through my nose and counted, one, two, three, and let the strange stillness of my body be the answer.

Diana released the end of the rope, which fell between my breasts, its silver ring brushing against my sternum like a blessing that told no lies. It warmed quickly against my skin, cradled between soft curves and the rising heat of my pulse. I stood there, collared in silence, kissed into submission by a goddess who hadn’t asked for permission, only presence.

And I was still here.

And the beginning had only just begun.

Diana’s hand found mine, cool, sure, unyielding, and I followed her without question. She led me to the Saint Andrew’s Cross with the ease of a goddess leading prey into the dark. Her voice, low and volitional, curled around my spine. 

“Your arms may go numb,” she murmured, as if describing the weather. Then the cuffs, leather, supple and snug, closed around each wrist, her fingers working with adroit precision. My ankles followed. A slow, inevitable binding. Final.

“I won’t keep you here too long,” she said.

But my Inner Goddess parted her crimson lips a sliver. Her sibilant tone raced through me like wildfire:

“Keep me here as long as you wish. I won’t fight you.”

I rested my cheek against my upper arm, breath steadying as I let the bindings hold me. The leather bit just enough to remind me I was claimed, not roughly, but unmistakably. I softened into it, knees bent slightly, body loose, pliant, ready.

Her fingers skimmed across my back, light as moth wings, no weight, just the whisper of appetence. A kiss behind my shoulder blade, another at the nape of my neck, somnolent and searing. She did not rush. She moved like someone savoring, mapping terrain, coaxing storms.

Her hands swept over me in long, hallowed passes, not groping, not taking, but stirring, heat kindling wherever she touched, then ripening, delving where she didn’t. I breathed into the ache, into the exquisite hush between each caress, and harmonized to her cadence, her certainty, the rhythm of breath and heat and restraint.

Then came the implements.

The first, a tendril-soft confection of restraint and ritual, thrummed across my flesh in ten suede tongues, each one a teasing flirtation. She teased it along the curve of my shoulder, down the swell of my back, as if sketching verses in a language known only to high goddesses. When she finally gave it breath, released it with intent, it did not strike. It spoke. Not pain. Not even a warning. It barely grazed the threshold of discomfort. Instead, it reminded me that I existed.

Then came the second.

Thicker.
Hungrier.
Like being shoved against a wall by someone who knows. Knows how your hips angle when you want it harder, how your mouth parts when you’re on the edge of begging.

I arched. I gasped.

This one was no mere tool; it was a creature, premeditative and dark, steeped in telos. It fell with a lover’s certainty, its weight kissing down with a kind of brutal grace. The sound, low, lush, thrummed through the room like the first moan in a long-denied reunion.

It stirred something ancient inside me. Not sacred, feral. A pulse, pelagic and buried, coiled in the soft animal of my belly. The part of me that had been caged by grocery lists, late-night essays, and the click of the front door securing those most precious to me. This thing, it shook me loose.

Each strike was not a wound, not merciless, but a reclamation. A throb that asked nothing and took everything.

I stopped thinking.

Not of the grades, my mind still believed I owed the world.

Not of dinner, I was too worn to conjure.

Not of the half-dozen messages sitting like stones in my chest.

There was only skin, and sound, and the eclipsing burgeoning of something liquid and electric spiraling down my spine.

Each stroke unwound me. Not brutal, not sharp, but unfastening.

She peeled back the scaffolding I’d braced against for years:

Mother. Graduate. The composed woman who so rarely exposed the chinks in her armor to show.

I softened. Sighed open. Edges turned dulcet.

My limbs loosened beneath the measured cadence of her hand. A necessary unraveling. A welcome coming undone.

The leather licked my hip with the intimacy of a tongue, like a question I’d forgotten how to answer. And I gasped, because somewhere beneath the exhaustion, beneath the iron-willed holding-on, I had wanted this. No, ached for it. That tender coaxing of the self I’d silenced, the ache I’d starved.

With each breath, I grew less bound.
Less statue.
Gentler.
The one I used to meet in the mirror, before the tightening armor, and the weight of an entire world. 

The room pulsed around me, a low hum of thunder. Rain murmuring against the glass. Heat brewing at the base of my spine.

And in that hush, Diana wielded. And the room exhaled.

So did I.

Numbness crept from my fingers to my wrists, lapping lazily up my arms like auric tidewater swallowing shore. I didn’t care, I was languid, my pulse a hymn beneath the skin. I luxuriated in the lull, in the echoing hush of her mastery. She circled me like perfume, her palm tracing the blush she’d coaxed forth, each stroke a permission to simply be.

And then, my favorite.

It held the shape of a Victorian rug beater, all spirals and stern elegance, but instead of wire, it was formed from something more pliable, thin plastic perhaps? It struck with tiny bites of precision. Its kiss stitched vellumed welts into my skin like baroque filigree etched in ivory. The pattern unfurled across my thighs as each impact came with a rattle, sharp and dry, like eucalyptus branches shaken by wind, unnerving, brittle, electric. The sound made me shudder more than the strike.

It was utterly bizarre.

Utterly divine.

There may have been others, implements of leather, polished wood, perhaps fur-tipped a combination of fine batiste and sting of sin. My mind slipped past language, thick with nectar and fogged. Full of stars.

I let her sculpt me in the erotic ballet of her own making. 

Her full curves molded to mine, with hips locking behind me, breasts pillowed against my spine. I could feel the outline of her every breath, how her ribcage rose and pressed into me, how her thighs anchored me in place.

When her lips found my neck, they once more brushed a composer’s hand poised above his note. Luxurious drags of her mouth, each one painting, causing a response from my skin. She lingered over the pulse just beneath my ear, teeth barely grazing before her tongue swept in to soothe. I moaned and she purred in response. That sound, hers, slid down my body in a sacrament of lust, pooling between my legs.

Her hands never broke contact. They dragged down my arms, coaxed my hips into movement, and slid across my ribs like she was tuning an instrument. I was flushed, high off vibrance, my skin humming, nipples peaked from the contrast of air and her mouth. Around us, thunder cracked again, a jealous echo of the tremors inside me.

My Inner Goddess remained. Eyes wide. Curious. Dripping awe.

I had never known this before.
Not the tenderness.
Not the way another woman could touch like that, like she’d written sonnets about my body in her dreams and now recited them with lips, teeth, breath, and tongue.

She made me wanton.
And still, I wanted more.

Diana brought me water. As I drank, her fingers brushed against mine, not incidental, but nearly diagnostic. She noted the cadence of my swallow, the subtle recoil of my throat muscles, the fluttering response low in my belly. Her gaze swept over me like a physician taking vital signs, attuned to the flush that rose along my cheeks, the shallow rhythm of my breath, the vascular flutter at my neck. She was reading me, not just observing, but monitoring, tracking the aftershocks that still echoed through my body like distant thunder.

Satisfied, she gave a single, sovereign nod and turned, her fingers ghosting along the hollow of my lower back…a wordless summons that curled through me like smoke. Only then did I realize she had fully freed me from the Saint Andrew’s cross, her touch guiding me into the open heart of the temple. Hot blood surged with a stinging urgency down my arms, flooding my fingers with tingling life. Spellbound, I followed, drawn not by command alone, but by the dark gravity of her will.

The next altar resembled a wide, padded bench, firm, but dressed in a supple, waterproof cover. Over it, she had spread an inviting blanket, the kind that vowed both to comfort and withstand whatever its mistress had in store for me. She guided me with a low murmur, and I obeyed.

I knelt, slowly, luxuriously. My forearms rested against the lower cushion, thighs parted and grounded, shins flush to the bench’s base. She rolled a towel and slid it with care between the swells of my breasts, lifting the weight of me until I hovered, held aloft in a posture that made me feel both cradled and exposed.

The position was indecent, my hips high, back arched, the curves of my body parted, bared. I felt her behind me, quiet, watching.

My sense of propriety writhed, but I did not move.

I calmed my mind, reminding myself that though I was spread and exposed, there was no audience, only sanctuary. Only Diana, and the hush of the storm pressing against the tall windows like a voyeur denied. This was not performance. It was devotion.

Diana returned, and with her came the implements, extensions of her divine will, her artistry, her appetite. Each one was reintroduced to me like a half-remembered lover in a foreign land, familiar and yet made strange again by the exotic wielder and the sharp edge of anticipation. The leather strands brushed against my back, with the elegance of a conductor testing the strings before the canticle begins.

She played me.

Slowly.

Wickedly.

She swept along the slope of my arms, the fragile wingbone of each shoulder, the undercurve of my waist where breath crystallized and desire hides. Downward still, she traced the round slope of my backside, the parted swell of my thighs, the tender behind of each knee, the lustring of my calves. Even the soles of my feet were not spared, delicate flicks, like a painter’s signature at the edge of the canvas.

I was opened by her, utterly, exquisitely unwrapped. There was nowhere her touch did not travel. Nowhere left untouched, unseen. A kind that asks nothing and gives everything in return.

And never once did fear enter the room.

My Inner Goddess did not brace. She reclined. Languorous. A feline beneath a sun-drenched windowpane, watching the storm from inside her own body. I did not clench or withdraw. I unfurled. I exhaled. My skin sighed beneath every stroke, every breath of leather and heat and female want. 

Each nerve lit, yet soothed. My thighs shifted of their own accord, slow, searching. A soft, helpless arch. My breath hitched when hers ghosted over the hollow of my collarbone, and still I did not tense. I melted. I dripped with a slow, internal pleasure and something more molten, more infinite. A hunger that never exacted, only effloresced.(eh – flr – ested)

Outside, the storm sang on, a cantilena of moans in thunder and percussion, while inside, I became music in Diana’s hands.

Her kisses came next.

Bestowed, like arcana murmured beneath sarcennet. Behind my ear, where memory lives. At the base of my spine, where I break. Along the curve of my hip, where want coils like perfume. Each kiss was an offering, never predictable, never repeated in the same place. I never knew when she would grace me, and that unknowing only loosened my will further.

And in that not-knowing, that suspended ache of when and where next, I dissolved, the last of my surrender steepened like tea left to darken. Not because she took, but because she waited. Because she knew. Because she wanted me undone.

Then came a new sensation, sharper, not torment but provocation..

Something slender and sure. I could not see it. The air warned me first, slicing a breath before it landed.

A riding crop, perhaps. I couldn’t be sure. Only that it kissed my skin with a bite, a swift, square flick that made my hips twitch and my lips part in startled need. It stung, yes, but only briefly. A concentrated spark that flared across the curve of my backside, then vanished, leaving heat in its wake.

She was never callous. Never stayed too long in one place. Each stroke moved, chased, and coaxed. Over the swell of a thigh, the side of a breast, the tender arch where my foot dipped to tiny curled toes. My skin lit up with the chase. My breath caught. My spine curved instinctively, seeking it.

The pyre she lit didn’t roar; it simmered low and thick, crawling downward in waves until it pooled between my legs, insistent, undeniable. My thighs shifted without meaning to. A low sound stirred in my throat, not quite a moan, but something close. Something raw. Diana played my body the way only a goddess could, with wisdom, experience, and smug satisfaction.

And then, the wooden paddle.

Long. Wide. Intrinsically unyielding.

It hovered a moment, heavy in the air, a covenant waiting to be fulfilled. When it landed, it was a firm, rigid strike, measured even. The sound echoed, a sharp, intimate report that pressed burrowing into my nerves.

The first tap was a brush, a tentative question. Then another, commanding, each one landing with growing certainty, coaxing a fervor beneath my skin that throbbed hotter, spiralling. The sting blossomed, sharp, biting, setting my blood ablaze. My breath caught, fractured between gasps, heat pooling and coiling low in my belly.

My body stiffened as panic surged, a sudden tide crashing through my torso, flooding my arms, spilling icy waves down to my fingertips. My breath became shallow, sharp-edged. Bile rose, choking in my throat. My body faltered, not from desire, but from history.

A trigger.

A ghost.

Pain divorced from love had once lived in my bones. It pounded now, loudly, demanding to reclaim its assumed birthright. My breath hitched. The beatings…no. The sharp sting ignited a flare of alarm, hot and suffocating, crawling up my spine like a pyric surge. Every nerve screamed at me to flee, to curl into the safety of my own skin, to shut down and protect what remained.

But I fought the wraith, the woman who darkened my past.

I forced myself to anchor into the now. To feel the weight of my body pressing down into the bench, grounding me. To track the steady beat of my heart as it echoed beneath Diana’s rhythm. To drag each ragged breath in slow, imbrued pulls through clenched teeth, pleading with the fear to loosen its grip.

Diana did not know, could not see, the tempest raging beneath my stillness. Her hands moved with quiet assurance, delivering each stroke with the same unerring resolve, her cool palm soothing the bruising flesh, unaware of the battle waging inside me.

I sharpened my focus. This time was different.

Why? Smack, smack. Panic.

I clawed my way through the mental rending, both present and remembered, desperate to stay long enough to name the difference. My body flinched on reflex, but my mind refused to follow. I would not retreat. I would not vanish. Breath.

There was no cruelty in this touch. This was not a mortal woman but a supreme goddess. No rage. Inhale. No edge of escalation. Only resolve. Only precision. Breath. This would not spiral.

And slowly, so slowly, I let the truth seep into me like caressing rain on parched ground.

I was safe.
I was in control.
I was not alone.

Breath.

At that moment, Diana leaned close, her breath a balm at the nape of my neck. Her lips spilled murmured words I couldn’t catch, but I felt them, softfire syllables sinking into skin. Her fingers swept my curls aside with idolized ease, anchoring me, steadying me.

I muttered to myself: “You are safe. You are worshipped. You can end this with a single lift of your finger.”

And in that fragile breath of choice, I stayed.

When pain erupted again, sharper now, fanning like fire across the crest of my right buttock, I let it move through me. I did not flinch. I leaned in. I met it.

And a scarred part of my soul cracked open inside me, quietly, irrevocably. A part I had long dismissed, walled off in shadow, now imperceptibly healed in the sun-dappled light of a goddess.

The paddle was set aside.

Oil followed, opaline and fragrant, poured into Diana’s palms, then spread across me in long, scrupulous strokes. From the nape of my neck to the arches of my feet, I was bathed. Anointed. Worshipped in silence. I undulated beneath her hands, my spine curling like smoke. 

Her hands did not press. They did not dictate submission from the taut tendrils of nerve and muscle still humming beneath my skin. Instead, she simply said hello, coaxing the bound tension to come and dance with her fingers. Each pass wove a spell, drawing the static, the sorrow, the ache from my body in a quiet exorcism.

This was no hurried affection, no reaching for release.
This was devotion.
The kind of love that lingers. That seeks not climax, but communion.

At last, she draped a blanket over my glistening skin, softer than fleece, heavier than breath. I sank beneath it, swaddled. Held in a way I had never known. Not even in dreams.

Before Diana’s fingers returned, she implemented two curious instruments: handled wheels set with wickedly fine-tipped spikes, relics of a ritual both primal and refined. The first, studded with five slender points, rolled slowly across my skin, each revolution a tantalizing interrogation. Diana’s gaze measured the subtle tremors flickering beneath my flesh, her hands translating silent answers. Its touch was a paradox—sharp yet soothing, a captivating contradiction woven into each prickling caress.

She traced it languidly over the pale expanses of my arms and shoulders, along the sinuous curve of my spine, descending lower to chart a constellation of sensation across my buttocks and thighs, ending finally on the tender undersides of my feet. Each passage stirred dormant nerves, a slow-burning ignition that set my blood aflame in shivering ribbons.

Then, with a subtle shift, she wielded the second wheel, smaller, bearing only two or three jagged sentinels. Its touch was less sweeping, yet infinitely more intimate, sketching a path both familiar and new. It glided over me like a vampiric lover’s breath, weaving a binding spell of exquisite awakening.

Each prick and glide unraveled me, and I called it into me as I succumbed, loosened at my seams, as Diana beckoned me into a serene pact of complicit unravelling and fervent awakening.

Only then, only then, did Diana’s fingers return to the apex of my thighs.
Still featherlight.
But for the first time, her touch was direct.
For the first time, she allowed her fingertips to explore.

Her tips parted me with a hush, no rush, no taking, just the drawling study of skin and response. She traced the pearl of me like she was reading some cipher etched beneath, her touch maddening in its restraint. No rhythm, no mission, just… presence. Like she wasn’t trying to summon anything at all, just to listen.

My limbs floated. My ribs barely moved. Everything inside me ached without asking to be answered.

I couldn’t come. Not yet. I couldn’t even beg for it. The circuits had been severed and rewired, snaking their way through something darker, deeper, more devout. She hadn’t asked for release, hadn’t even hinted at it. That chapter of the rite had yet to begin.

Then, like dusk folding over the day, like gravity claiming its due, her device appeared in her palm. It was simply there. I hadn’t seen her reach for it. Hadn’t seen her choose. And yet, it was there, a quiet instrument of fate, humming like an oath just before it is spoken.

She pressed it to my waiting pearl, and its purr sank into me, low, subterranean, reverberating down my thighs and coiling around my knees. But this was no mere object. It was a vassal, a supplicant, tremulous in Diana’s stalwart clasp as she bent its strength against me.

She moved through them slowly, one device, then another, not by volume or size, but with the certainty of someone fluent in the dialect of desire. One buzzed low, slipping inside me like a confession I hadn’t meant to speak. Another fluttered sharp and quick, like a moth trapped within my core, and I gasped, no words, but the ragged intake of breath too jagged to form sense.

She circled back to one in particular, mean and precise, a maelstrom trapped in petals, and when it touched the center of me, lightning struck through my pelvis, and my spine levitated from the earth as my soul was carved open from within.

My mouth found the towel beneath me, and I bit down, teeth sinking into the cotton as I screamed, not neatly, not prettily, but raw and ruptured, the sound torn from some primeval chasm in my being. My hips bucked, once, again, then stilled, trembling in the aftermath.

It wasn’t a scream I made. Not really. It was a tearing. A sound older than language. The cry of a body remembering too much, too quickly.

I broke.

Not shattered, there was no art to it, no eiderdowned metaphor. I cracked like tectonic plates colliding beneath the ocean. Unseen. Unstoppable. And she felt it. Counted it. Sixteen detonations, maybe more. I lost track. She did not.

And through it all, she remained. Still as obsidian, sovereign in silence. She did not speak; she ordained as her hands flowed with a language older than words, like prophecy remembered, tracing the map of my undoing with the certainty of one who has led many to the underworld and back again.

She knew when to summon ache, when to press her command into flesh, and when to vanish, leaving me gasping in that breathless hollow where shadow meets ecstasy. Each breath a verse, each pause a rite, each glimmer a star falling into place. 

She did not merely witness my descent; she orchestrated it, as though my body had always been fated to open like this, in her hands, beneath her gaze, under a sky that had long been waiting for me to fall. With the solemnity of her status, she fulfilled a destiny I had only just remembered to obey. 

Diana was far from finished with me. The implements she wielded, objects that in any other hands might have felt foreign or jarring, melted seamlessly into her will, alive and tender.

A cool bead of greased silicone pressed against me first, just the tip, sliding in and out with a deft, teasing rhythm that sent shivers dawning beneath my skin. It was an invitation, a query nudged against my nerves, awakening every hidden seam of my awareness.

Then, deeper, something fuller and stretching claimed me, was it her hand guiding a sleek, dark shape? Or the steady, relentless press of hips bound tight against mine, locking us together in an unspoken pact?

My fuzzed mind could not decipher, and the uncertainty only fed the heat curling low in my belly, the delicious ache pooling there like molten ambrosia.

Her thighs pressed like slow-burning embers against mine, muscles coiling and releasing in slow, hypnotic waves. My hands clawed at the sheets, slick and unreal beneath me, as if the world had shifted and only this moment of wild abandon was real.

The wet slap of flesh meeting flesh added a fierce percussion to the symphony, her hips pounding into mine with a rhythm both brutal and sacred, raw with longing and control.

Her breath rumbled low in her throat, a guttural, hungry sound that tore through me, unraveling every thread of restraint I’d clung to.

I shattered beneath her, filled, again and again, each convulsion a wild surrender to ravishing I had never dared to crave, let alone taste. Every thrust was a stanza in an esoteric poem, each pause a razor’s edge of sweet torment, every return a balm that seared and soothed in the same breath.

I was no longer a woman with a name or defenses, but a vessel emptied and refilled with pure, unspoken worship.

And she, unmoved by the storm she conjured within me, remained radiant, sovereign, a fierce and gentle queen reigning over my ruin.

I had never been claimed by a goddess in the marrow of my being…so utterly, so profoundly. She filled me, stretched me, the thick presence within brushing against the farthest reaches of my depths, each slow thrust coaxing tremors through my soul. I quivered beneath the inexorable pull of her magnetism, a force I was only beginning to fathom, yet already powerless to resist.

She was my unraveling, my fierce sanctuary, the architect of my euphoria, the goddess who remade me with every breathless moment.

On and on it went, time unraveling in molten skeins, slipping through me like the secret breath of some slumbering deity. I had long since abandoned the illusion of beginning or end. Her mouth wandered, a lambent pilgrimage up the cathedral of my spine, each vertebra a rung on some ancient ladder toward the divine. When her lips finally arrived, trailing over the swell of my shoulder, brushing the corner of my mouth, I let my eyes flutter open, dazed and abstract, a faint smile hovered on the cusp of my swollen lips, too weary to hold.

The chamber had dimmed around us, the gleaming temple light now bathed in amber hush. I hadn’t noticed the shift; I had been elsewhere, drenched in her, dissolved in the undercurrent of her ethos. Diana pressed a chalice of crystal water to my lips. I sipped it carefully, my stomach uncertain, my body still uncertain as to its orientation. Diana’s fingers brushed my temple, lightly taming the tangle of sapphire curls clinging to my flushed cheeks. I was boneless. Airborne. Each muscle unspooled, every buried knot of tension coaxed open as if she’d spoken directly to the sinews of me and they had simply… obeyed.

There had been no stern ritual of throe and command. There had been no whip-crack authority, no ruthless tease of withheld indulgence. This was… seduction incarnate. Feminine. Erotic. Enveloping. It was as if the act of being touched by her had turned my entire body into a song, played on a frequency only she could hear. Not just between my thighs, but over every inch of me. Erotic. Enveloping. Feminine in a way I’d never before understood, lush and glorified and exquisitely unhurried.

Diana led me, hand-in-hand, and guided me into a smaller chamber, an alcove cloaked in woven mystery. The walls were veiled in tapestries not of lewd scenes but dreamscapes: argent waterfalls cascading through obsidian glades, crashing under a swollen moon, forests drenched in midnight, wildflowers glowing phosphorescent as though fairy-laced. The whole room shimmered as if submerged underwater or enchanted in a forgotten spell.

I was swaddled before I realized, ensconced in a samite blanket, lowered onto a pillowed daybed that cradled my limbs like the arms of a lover. Diana curled beside me, her heat an ache I could still feel on my skin. A bowl of cherries, lush and dark as garnets, was placed at my side. Their ripeness burst across my tongue, sticky and sweet, followed by cool mints that melted into sighs. I nibbled granola, willing my flighty core to settle. Talk drifted between us like lazy incense. The kind of conversation that slips past time, meandering from secrets to laughter to silence without ever breaking the spell. I don’t know how long we lingered; hours or minutes had no meaning, but I remember the furling effulgent of it, like a blaze kindled not to burn but to beckon.

At some point, during a hush thick with knowing, she turned to me with a wry sparkle in her eyes. “Well…I’m not finished with you,” she said, her voice shaped by certainty, as though stating an empirical decree. “Come. It’s time I took you to my boudoir.”

And gods, my whole being lit like a struck flint. My Inner Goddess beamed, radiant and thrumming, beaming wider than the moon stitched into the tapestry across from us. I pressed my lips to suppress the girlish giggle threatening to rise, and followed her into the dark.

Beckoning, she led me through the winding hush of the hallways, past glinting sconces and wafting shadows, to the sanctuary of her room. I slipped beneath her decadent linens as if spun from the rarest feathers. The mattress embraced me fully, molding to the curves of my spent body with such intimacy that I imagined Morpheus himself appearing at my shoulder, hand poised to scatter his sand. But I waved him away. Sleep would have to wait.

For Diana wasn’t finished.

At first, she did nothing but wrap herself around me, her radiance enveloping, her breath a benediction against my ear. I curled into her, nestled in the sacred curve of her body, my back to her chest, small and content and held. My eyelids fluttered with the weight of sleep, my cheek sinking catatonically into the plush pillow. We murmured to each other still, light, dreamlike words drifting between our mouths. But even then, I felt the first spark, my apex stirring again, curious, as her long, clever fingers trailed a teasing line just along the ridge of my folds. She did not touch my pearl, oh no, she only reminded it of what she was capable of producing, luring it to wakefulness.

Time rippled, subtle as breath across bare skin. I couldn’t say how long we lay suspended like that, the room cradling the hush of our conferencing, listening without judgment. The air was drowsy, perfumed with our heat.

Eventually, Diana stirred, slipping from the nest of our entanglement. Her absence left a hollow warmth that ached in my bones. She moved like a shadow with a mission, vanishing into the soft murk only to reemerge moments later with objects in hand…wonders and wicked things, glinting with intention.

One in particular made my thighs twitch shut involuntarily. My gaze fell on it, and a quiet dread curled through my belly. I remembered a similar shape, wielded once by another, and how my body had tensed in resistance. But this was different. She was different. My Inner Goddess arched a curious brow, not dismissing, merely watching.

Perhaps… in Diana’s hands, even a thing that once felt wrong could become sublime.

She returned to the bed like a queen descending her throne, settling herself comfortably at my side. In her palm, she cradled a C-shaped device, sleek, sinuous, one end bulbous, the other rounded but more diminutive. With delight, Diana demonstrated its many uses. It looked almost ceremonial, yet each end vibrated independently, promising to map my skin with a constellation. 

Then she revealed the phallic marvel.

Not grotesque, no; but formidable in presence, calibrated with unapologetic pride. A double-ended shaft, nearly the width of my wrist, its surface sculpted in rich anatomical detail, veins raised like obscene cartography, carved not merely for function, but for awe.

Surely it had been molded in the mirror image of an unnamed Olympian god, one whose name had been lost to time not by accident, but by design. So treasured was his intimate gift, so devastating in its beauty, that even myth refused to name him, lest the world be tempted beyond its strength. And so he remained hidden, veiled in the clouds of Olympus, where only the worthy might glimpse the shape of his ecstasy. 

And now, here it was before me.

At her offering, I reached out, hesitantly, and found the material luxurious, not sticky or synthetic, but smooth as river-polished stone. My Inner Goddess bit her bottom lip in contemplation. I was intrigued. Cautious. Tempted.

Unfazed, Diana pried open the thighs I hadn’t realized I’d clenched.

A glistening stream of liquid, cotton candy scented, viscous, and iridescent, poured from a small vial she held and was massaged over me with focused diligence. Her fingers circled my folds like they were anointed parchment, tracing pleasure in discerning, knowing strokes. Then came her mouth, gods, that mouth, descending with devotion, lapping at me as if feeding from some sacred spring. No piety here, just hunger, and adoration, and instinct.

She piloted the C-shaped device with her fingers, her lips, a concerto of emotions. I shuddered, moaned, dissolved. Again and again, she dismantled me with that rarest of methods: total attentiveness. She was rapt, savoring every convulsion, as though each climax was a verse in some poem only she could translate.

When I thought I could take no more, when I was hovering somewhere above my body, detached, blissfully broken, she brought forth the phallus. 

Then she began. Pressing it gently, slowly, at my slick entrance. An inch, then a pause. And still, there was no rush. She moved as if Time answered to her. Another inch, and my body argued around the unfamiliar stretch. It wasn’t pain, but it did require me to unclench, to yield, holding myself open and willing. Still, there was no force. Only her presence behind it, her hands guiding it, her eyes never leaving mine as she crooned into the space between us, “Let me.”

Inch by glorious inch, the pale, gleaming intruder stretched me open, retreated only to coax a gasp from my lips as my body fought and welcomed it in equal measure. I hadn’t known I could take it, not the majority of it. But under her precision, her tenderness, I did. Until it filled me utterly. Until I no longer knew where I ended and it began.

Only then did she move into the counterpart position. 

Situating herself between my open thighs, Diana moved with the grace of someone both clinical and possessed, anatomist and altar priestess. Her eyes glimmered, not just with mischief, but something near to reverence, as she guided herself down onto the opposite end of the god-forged shaft. A low, breathless sound escaped her, almost inaudible, as the shape found home within her body.

And then, we were joined. Bound not by rope nor vow, but by that dark, gleaming tether forged in myth and soaked now in mortal heat. It anchored us, two bodies made suddenly one, pierced by the same breathless center, echoing each other’s pulse from within.

We paused there, stilled as if time itself held its breath.

The electricity between us didn’t just hum; it crackled, alive and aware. A shared current snaked through the depths of us, pulsing where the god’s mirrored gift filled us both. My muscles clenched, hers responded. A fulcrum of heat and sensation. We paused, suspended in a taut moment, cataloging every sparking nerve, every whisper noted and savored. And then, with our legs tangled, scissored, our breaths quickened. In that exquisite stillness, we were more than bodies. We were a living bridge. A sacrament.

Then we moved. Our hips rocked in tandem. The device remained resolute as we worked ourselves back and forth along its length, awakening every swollen nerve as if by incantation. Diana reached for the twin-tipped vibrator, placed one end against my hooded pearl, the other nestled between her own lips. And then, bliss.

Together. Against. Around. We writhed like celestial bodies caught in mutual orbit, colliding and retreating, pressing, grinding, breathing each other in. Our moans were music, sometimes solo, sometimes duet, sometimes a full aria of wet, gasping harmony.

It was not a climax, it was a coronation.

I had never known a woman like this. Never imagined I could be taken in such a way. Every touch felt designed for the soul of me, not just the sin. It was feminine and fierce. Erotic and exalted. Every sensation bloomed from the root of me.

We were not merely women.

We were priestesses. Lovers. Alchemists. Her touch transmuted me, tenderness into incandescence, vulnerability into ache, ache into crescendo. We conjured something wild and Fey between us, a siren’s spell invoking something holy from moans and marrow and the wet, blessed language of bodies that wanted only to melt into one another.

Between shivers, between the glittering drips of our shared pleasure, I floated high above the tangled wreckage of our limbs and wondered, not entirely in jest, if I could ever return to men and gods. Perhaps I should renounce them, form a coven of goddesses and lovers, self-sufficient and sated to live out eternity in pleasure-drenched oblations.

My Inner Goddess only scoffed, her eyes half-lidded, rolling back as she purred through another shiver. She knew better. She always had. 

I could bathe in erminois, press lips to lips in velvet sanctuaries, and taste the gilded ache of feminine worship for an age…

But still. 

I would crave the brutal chaos of masculinity.
The growl in my ear sounded like thunder behind a locked door.
The unrelenting grip that left fingerprints and bruises.
The exquisite torment of being taken, not just touched.

It was the yin to my heaving softness, the salt to my sacred sweetness. And I, shameless, wanton thing that I am, would always beg for them.

But now… I knew this existed, too.

This sacred, sapphic ember. This soft, searing sorcery.

And I knew I would never again go without it.

I watched her come undone.

It was all clenched fists and fractured exhale, a tidal unraveling, a sacred ache unfurling from her ribs outward, radiant and unstoppable. Her head tilted back, curls tangled in the coverlet, mouth parted in a gasp that ignited from her belly. Her thighs shook, taut and wide as a string pulled to the breaking point, and then, then came shudder after shudder. A convulsing, spellbound euphoria that ripped through her with a rapturous violence.

And gods, she was beautiful like that.

Her breasts rose and fell in erratic cadence, her abdomen stuttering with aftershocks, her eyes glassy with unshed tears and something older than joy. I adored witnessing a goddess this exposed. Yet never from this unique vantage. And here I was, a mortal there to witness the sacred collapse after the quake, the beauty of a goddess felled by her own desire.

We collapsed together, star-bursting, boneless, limbs awry on the sweat-dampened sheets. My skin prickled with the cooling air, but I could not stir. My body was a petal shed in moonlight, splayed, fragrant, undone.

But Diana moved.

Gathering her indomitable strength, she crawled toward me with the weightless grace of water, her muscles fluid with exhaustion and something stubbornly resilient. Her arms slipped beneath me, pulling my pliant frame into her own. I was scooped, claimed, cherished. Her breath kissed the nape of my neck in soft pulses, and she cradled me as though I were precious, wrecked treasure she’d unearthed in some fathom-deep trench.

Above us, the ceiling shimmered with illusion or bewitchment, I could no longer say. The sky had split into warbling strands of amethyst and jade, the aurora borealis spilling its ribboned hush across the dark. And beneath that glow, I lay in Diana’s arms, the steady thrum of our mingled heartbeats sounding louder than any chorus.

She spoke no words, not yet. Speech seemed too clumsy, too coarse a vessel for the sacred communion that had passed between us.

Instead, her fingertips glided along my arm with a theophily that transcended touch. Each feathered stroke was an inveigled psalm, rewriting me in the language of sweat and soft exhalations.

The faintest trace of her elvenlight, the wild musk of her skin mingling with the fragile sweetness of dusk, drifted to me, a slender tendril lapping at the edges of my senses.

What came next was unknown.

Yet in that consecrated silence, I craved no certainty.

I had been worshipped, not with frantic abandon, but with deliberate sanctity. In return, I revealed myself, unmasked, exposed, unraveled, to a goddess who had carefully unspooled every brittle layer I had so fiercely guarded, leaving me exquisitely bare, impossibly whole. 

Her arms tightened their cradle around me, an unspoken covenant of presence, sanctuary, and refuge.

Sleep teased at the edge of me, ohh so seductive, but the world was already reaching back with cold fingers. I couldn’t stay, not long. And yet… I did. Just a breath more. Just until the memory of it all could set like gold in my bones.

Until next time, XO. Elsie