January 2025 – Audio Version

Thoughtfully crafted, my home was designed to soothe my troubled soul, yet here I was, butterflies fluttering and my throat tightening. Without the assistance of the intoxicating nectar of ambrosia or the gilded distractions of hedonistic Olympus, I found myself on forgotten terrain, a situation I had not walked in some time. Meanwhile, a sultry playlist warbled softly in the background, its notes both enticing and suave, while the warmth of my surroundings offered the comfort I had carefully built for myself.

The distinguished form of Chaucer sat beside me on my lean couch. Our bodies angled inward toward one another, the subtle focus behind our positioning clear. For this Master of Words, each phrase was not merely spoken but meticulously crafted—etched with purpose, shaded with subtlety, and imbued with unspoken depths. Satire and insight shaped our conversation, weaving delicate threads between humor and philosophy, between the sacred and the profane.

After a week of minimal conversation with my teenagers—our exchanges limited to “what’s for dinner” or the laughable “bruh”—my mind was thrilled at the breadth and scope of my current exchange, starved for dialogue of such caliber. Yet my Inner Goddess, ever my pragmatist of passion, sighed with restless exasperation. Wit was fine enough, but touch spoke its own exquisite script.

Chaucer and I had waltzed along the edge of flirtation for a year, our steps measured, our glances respectful. Nevertheless, Life, in her maddening whimsy, chose to confound our schedules—until now.

As words flowed and laughter tumbled between us, I felt my thoughts stray. Questions rose unbidden, curious, and untamed. What might Chaucer’s hands feel like if I dared to bridge the chasm between conversation and touch? My fingers itched with intrigue, and my pulse quickened by possibilities. My Inner Goddess ever urging me to instigate, my bold siren coaxing me to the precipice of the possible.

And then, Chaucer shifted. His full frame blocked the sunlight pouring through my patio, casting elongated shadows across the floor. As he turned toward me, his eyes dark with meaning, he reached for my hand. His fingers enclosed mine—warm, steady, and unshakably certain. In that touch, it felt as though time itself had held its breath, the weight of the moment thick and still.

The room seemed smaller, the air heavier, as though even silence stilled its exhalation, waiting for what would come next. A smile, half-formed and secret, played at the corners of my lips. I bit my bottom lip, uncertain whether to speak. I could see the gears turning in Chaucer’s eyes as he sought the perfect words, lining them up into a sentence that, as of yet, remained unspoken.

We balanced on the edge of something—tantalizing and fragile. The quiet between us wavered, a discourse of its own, spoken in the subtle press of his hand, the shift of his weight, the gravity of all that remained unsaid.

My Inner Goddess would not let this moment slip away.

“Would you like to go to the bedroom?”

The words fell from my lips like silk unfolding; each syllable steeped in invitation.

His answering grin, wicked and knowing, sparked a thrill that curled low in my belly. He rose with languid grace, extending his hand like a nobleman of old. I allowed him to draw me to my feet, a willing accomplice in the unfolding mischief. My Inner Goddess laughed with delight—mirth and mischief wrapped in anticipation.

In the sanctuary of my bedchamber, sunlight peered like a voyeur through the curtains, spilling its golden warmth across snowy sheets. Together, we knelt on the bed, facing each other, fully clothed but bound by a simmering tension, both respectful and perhaps a bit shy and unsure how to proceed. His fingers traced the outlines of my form through the thick embrace of my winter sweater, a touch both reverent and exploratory, as though each contour held a secret waiting to be revealed by his hands.

Our kisses began like a sonnet, soft and tentative, before deepening into a decadent stanza of opulent fervor. His lips, full and yielding, tasted of forbidden sweetness—and I savored them. My inhalation quickened as my hands followed the path my thoughts had already wandered, daring across the ridges of his shoulders and the sinews of his arms.

I clutched the hem of my sweater with nimble fingers, lifting it in a single, theatrical flourish. It fell away, revealing the lace-trimmed auburn confection that adorned my skin. Though my bosom obeyed the polite confinement of lace, remaining in the delicate cups, the rise and fall of my bosom betrayed a more wanton pulse.

Chaucer’s eyes darkened his gaze a storm of complexity. With sudden, playful tenacity, he gripped my waist and flipped me onto my back. I landed in a soft cascade of sheets, my sapphire curls spilling across the pillow, and a laugh escaped me, ringing out as the mattress sighed.

He loomed above, a scholar poised over a sacred text, his eyes reading the depths of my expression as though it held the mysteries of life. My own gaze drank in his features—the sharp lines, the shadows that hinted at secrets, the gravity that made my pulse quicken. I shimmied under him, incited in the strength of his hold and the power of a moment unfurling beyond reason and restraint.

The air thickened with wordless parlance—one of touch, breath, and the space where daring met desire.

His presence radiated an overwhelming force that thrilled my petite frame. My insatiable Inner Goddess reveled in the contrast, jubilation in her own delicate stature as it pressed against the tempered resolve of him. The wintry afternoon light spilled across the room, pale and cool, while the heat of his broad chest against my palms and the molten warmth of his sigh against my neck made my skin shiver. Around us, the whispering breeze from the oscillating fan was a mere tease of chill, a fleeting note in a symphony of burgeoning heat.

Waiting in his shadow, my body curved and writhed, instinct yielding to pleasure. My thighs strained against the maddening construction of seams and taut jean fabric. I wrapped my legs around his formidable form, my limbs binding him in the coils of my will, while my arms clung to his shoulders—broad, indomitable, a solid fortress under my fingers.

Then it came—the growl. Low, primal, a sound that vibrated through the depths of him and reverberated in my chest. I faltered, caught between arousal and the spellbinding, heady pull of surrender.

With a glint in my eye, I unfastened the button of my jeans. A wicked smile curved on Chaucer’s lips, his gaze smoldering and yet amused. I arched, teasing, inviting. Chaucer’s fingers sought to peel away the stubborn material, and my protests spilled forth, half-laughing, half-frustrated. 

“I’m poured into these,” I explained, tugging at the unforgiving fabric, a flicker of embarrassment warming my cheeks, unwilling for his assistance.

He, ever the witty master of his art, merely chuckled. “Ah,” he murmured, rich eyes gleaming with mischief, “but it is my duty to release you.”

His words—a whisper, a promise, a spell—sent my Inner Goddess into rapted convulsions. To be unwrapped (or rather peeled out of) was a sure path to seduction.

With the grace of a poet’s hand guiding pen to parchment, Chaucer wove his skill into motion. His fingers, firm and sure, coaxed the stubborn denim past the swell of my hips, the fit so tight it required a patient, deliberate wiggle. The nearly suffocating constraint gave way to freedom, inch by inch, as he worked the fabric down—over the curve of my thighs, past my knees, and finally slipping them free from my toes.

In the space left behind, crimson lace and noir ribbons wove a delicate web across the bare skin of my abdomen. I lay there—unbound, breathless. Chaucer studied the sight of me with the precision of a writer choosing his words, his gaze lingering as if the moment itself were a sentence poised to be finished.

“My, those are pretty,” Chaucer murmured, his words brushing against my senses like the softest of quills, his hands pausing in reverence upon me.

A shiver of suspense coursed through me, my hips shifting ever so slightly in a silent dance of allure. His words came sharp and decisive, each one clipped, broaching no room for resistance.

“They need to come off, too.”

Emboldened by the cadence of his command, I rose onto my elbows, fingers trembling as I caught the delicate hem of my bralette. With a single, fluid motion, the writer unraveled the scarlet fabric from my skin, as though the thin material was a line of verse, a whispered offering to the unfolding narrative of the moment. It fell away, leaving me bare, slightly chilled, exposed, and innocent. I sank back, my head cradled by the softness of the pillow, while my nervousness crept higher.

Now I lay utterly vulnerable—my body, a tapestry stretched open for the Master of Words to explore. My Inner Goddess hummed, entranced, curling languidly as if she herself had become the melody of seduction.

The low, reverberating growl from his throat was a sonnet of desire, the kind that made my toes curl and my lashes flutter. His lips, warm and insistent, began their pilgrimage, charting the landscape of my form. Each curve, each rise of my body became sacred ground at his touch.

He proved himself an artist beyond compare—his kisses, more than mere gestures, pressed verse into my skin. Each caress inscribed a tale, a narrative far beyond the meager reach of my mortal earthly words. His lips traced odes along the arch of my collarbone, his tongue drafting opulent lines down the hollow of my throat.

My body, no longer my own, responded in ways words could never capture. I was poetry—unwritten, unspoken—waiting to be composed. A jolt surged through me, my pulse a frantic rhythm, as he explored me with each touch, learning the syntax of my skin.

My eyes drifted shut, veiling my sight, as though by closing them, I could delve more deeply into the sensations unraveling within me. Darkness became my refuge, a realm where each caress of his mouth on my bare skin reverberated as a silent hymn, a place where the sacred language of touch rendered words unnecessary.

Chaucer was neither shy nor hesitant. His movements glided like ink spilling across pristine parchment, dark and calculated, each stroke indelible. His thick hands traveled my wanton form as though my very body were a text to be read by touch alone—my needs the raised letters of a private Braille. Slowly, languorously, he traced the contours of my waiting figure. Yet unlike impetuous werewolves or the impassioned Olympians, his touch was not a frenzy of conquest but a meticulous prose, unfolding line by patient line.

With each pass of his caress, my skin became the finest vellum. His fingers explored the hollows and swells of my thighs as though composing a masterpiece, and when his breath hovered, whispering warmth against my most sacred sanctuary, my body quivered like a manuscript kissed by an eternal flame. His pace—unhurried, studied—was a fugue of restraint, each moment stretching the afternoon into a tapestry of timelessness.

My Inner Goddess writhed between the twin temptations of impatience and the decadent indulgence of an unclaimed hour.

It was worth the wait. Every second.

With veneration, he offered me a restrained mastery, his measured artfulness a slow crescendo that built my desire like a storm gathering on my horizon. At the skilled devotion of this masculine deity, I melted—an unformed thing shaped by the deft hands of a master sculptor. His technique was an invocation, an incantation of pleasure.

I moaned as his tongue became a quill, tracing sonnets across the tender pearl of my desire, each stroke a stanza, each flick of his tongue another line in a rhapsody of pure, undiluted worship. My thoughts, once sharp as daggers, dulled and blurred, my mind softening like the downy pillow crushed within my hands in a futile attempt to muffle my fervent cries from the curious ears of my neighbors.

Chaucer’s fluent lips offered a relentless crescendo that left my thighs trembling against the breadth of his mighty form. My Inner Goddess, now fully yielded, gloried in the exquisite dance of his unhurried artistry.

In the aftermath of multiplying rapture, as my body softened and my heartbeat steadied, his mouth found my ample breast with a lingering fervor. He molded his lips to the curve of my neck, his kisses a mixture of tenderness that shifted into a devouring intensity, sparking my body to both arch in response and melt like wax in the heat of an August sun.

There was an intentional languidness to our rhythm, a dance so deliberate and poised that I scarcely noticed the afternoon light slipping away, leaving us suspended in the gilded dimness of twilight. Atop him, my thighs embraced Chaucer’s torso, pressing against the warm, silken expanse of his skin, supple and glistening like polished bronze in the fading glow. My Inner Goddess unfurled her wings, their span vast and resplendent, as if she might take flight at any moment, a living manifestation of untamed femininity and raw vitality.

What a rare and extraordinary gift it was to feel so utterly alive. Untouched by the harsh realities of the world if but for a moment.

The world shifted once again, my body yielding as Chaucer’s commanding grasp claimed me, flipping me onto my back with a dexterity that was both unrelenting and precise. His lips, his tongue, and his fingers moved together in a symphony of intent, weaving sensations that demanded my surrender once more. Each motion—fluid, swirling, almost reverent—became a hymn as my throat cried my blistering joy. His awareness was regal, his touch guided by an instinct so finely attuned it seemed he knew my desires before I could articulate them.

My lungs burned, each intake coming in ragged, fiery gasps. Heat bloomed across my skin, and my cheeks flushed with a feverish, sinful fire that defied reason. My conscious mind struggled for purchase, a single scrap clinging to coherence, balking at the notion of my passivity. Yet my Inner Goddess had abandoned all such pretense, diving headlong into an explosion of color and pulse that left me utterly untethered, lost in the kaleidoscopic ecstasy.

Unbidden, my hand found its way to his waiting glory, slick with glistening eagerness. My touch mirrored his rhythm, stroking and kneading as if to offer him the same devotion he lavished upon me. Even through the blinding waves of pleasure that threatened to drown me, I remained attuned to the tremors of his response—the faintest hitch in his breath, the tightening of his muscles—each reaction a testament to our shared hunger.

Chaucer moved with a mastery that transcended skill, and his every action was an intimate dialogue between body and soul. My thoughts dissolved into the tempest, my senses drunk on the intricate spiral of my afternoon.

As the pale winter sunlight surrendered to the growing blackness of night through frost-kissed panes, Chaucer’s eyes gleamed with his suggestion, waiting patiently for my response. His sculpted body, the salt-and-pepper hair curling against the broad plane of his chest, made him a vision of strength. My heart quickened, a thrill coursing through me as I reached into the sideboard. The device nestled within my palm, an impish grin tugging at my lips—my Inner Goddess, ever the bold exhibitionist, reveled in the decadent anticipation of witnessing Chaucer lose himself to the pursuit of his own pleasure.

I sought to learn him as deeply as he had unraveled me: Was the sensitive underside of his noble length his Achilles’ heel? Was his darkening crown susceptible to the soft press of lips? Or was it the weight of his royal jewels, a sacred domain where my touch might command him to yield, a silent surrender to the sovereignty of my control? My Inner Goddess, ever the eager student of the erotic, observed intently, her curiosity a ravenous tide, while the little device hummed resolutely against my swollen pearl.

Chaucer knelt back on his heels, the sharp angles of his bare chest taut and veined with restrained power, every sinew a testament to masculine virility. His right hand moved with the stride of blinding purpose, a furious composition of self-possession. And still—oh, still—his left hand, unerringly skilled, slipped between the silk drapings of my sanctuary, his fingers a maestro conducting the tremulous music of my desire. He navigated my innermost sanctum with precision and obstinacy, teasing the swelling of my inner jewel with an unrelenting touch that left me undone, unraveling to the last thread.

Through the haze of half-lowered lashes, I watched him—this feral god, sculpted from the very marrow of the sun’s fire. The hard plane of his pectorals rippled with exquisite concentration, his physique a testament to carnal masculine grace, and I quivered on the edge of abandon. Every fiber of me strained against the rising flood, desperate to linger in this moment of sacred pleasure.

But I was no match for the tempest he had unleashed. The sight before me—the ravenous spectacle of Chaucer lost in his own rapture, the union of his touch with the unbearable ache within me—tore my resistance asunder. My scream nearly ruptured my throat, and my limbs shook violently beneath the onslaught of stimuli. The world fractured around me as my Inner Goddess soared, her triumph a cry of untamed transcendence that shattered the stillness of the dimming boudoir.

Spent and shuddering, we collapsed into the rumpled embrace of the bed. The melodic dimness of sundown wrapped around us like the hush of a lullaby, a tide of twilight cradling our tangled forms. I lay motionlessless, my skin aglow with the aftershocks of indulgence, my heart thundering with delight.

My Inner Goddess, reclining with a smug air of unshakable satisfaction, draped herself across her settee as if the world had bent to her whims, and she, above all, knew it. She surveyed the scene with a sort of bemusement that only comes from a battle won—thrilled, victorious, and content.

She mused with quiet wonder on the unparalleled joy of exploring another’s body—the sacred intimacy of first kisses offered like a whispered benediction, the tantalizing discovery of secret pleasures, and the unspoken rhetoric of shared thrills. To feel the sheer, commanding presence of a lover, the sinew and solidity of Chaucer pressing against the yielding softness of my diminutive frame, was a revelation of contrasts. 

Reliving each caress, each tremor of gooseflesh awakening beneath his touch sent tiny shivers up the nape of my neck. My heart raced with a silent awe, the understanding that someone as magnificent as Chaucer would choose to spend the fleeting hours of his precious afternoon in my company. A soft blush warmed my cheeks, gratitude that words could not capture.

As our bodies lay entwined, the enduring heat of our passion softened into a warm, shared glow. Gradually, the winter chill crept back into its rightful dominion, reclaiming the corners of my tiny bedroom. The shadows lengthened. My eyelids grew heavy with the sweetness of languor, a drowsy lull coaxing me toward an early bedtime. Were it not for the relentless knocking of responsibility battering at the edges of my mind, I might have surrendered to that blissful realm, letting my stolen moments melt into dreams.

But the world beyond my dulcet bed would not be denied.

At last, I rose from the disheveled nest, my limbs languid and sweetly sore, the remnants of our entanglement hovering like the ghost of a lover’s sigh. With half-lidded eyes, I gazed upon Chaucer’s noble form, witnessing his transformation beneath the veil of his attire. Each movement—an arm slipping into a sleeve, the meticulous fastening of a button—seemed like the deliberate turning of pages in a tome, its final chapters consumed. His broad, steadfast shoulders were soon draped in layers, akin to the cover of a great book, shielding its pages from winter’s touch.

Wrapping myself in a simple gray robe, I cinched the belt firmly around my waist, a frail barrier against the creeping fingers of winter’s chill. My well-worn body yearned for the pampering of a hot bath where my fragrant bubbles would caress my skin and heat would chase the cold from my whitening toes. My Inner Goddess clung to the luxurious promise of molten lava waiting to envelop me in its depth.

As he gathered his things, I trailed Chaucer to the door. The evening had shifted, the light fading from twilight into the embrace of night. It felt as though mischievous fairies had taken to the air, their laughter twinkling like the first stars daring to play in the darkening sky.

Standing on tiptoe, I pressed a final kiss to his lips—slow, deliberate—hoping he would taste the gratitude that words could not hold. As he disappeared into the night, I lingered in the doorway, the cool air brushing against my flushed cheeks, a smile curling on my lips. My Inner Goddess hummed a dream that every afternoon might be surrendered to such glorious abandon—spent with gods, Olympians, and the Fey, where even time itself would bow to our wicked whims.

Nevertheless, the world would keep turning, as it always does, but for a few stolen hours, I had known something rare and resplendent.

And in that moment, it was enough.

Until next time, XO. Elsie