April 2025

I was, by all accounts, a terrible girlfriend—and certainly the furthest thing from a birthday gift.

I arrived at Jack’s grumpy, sour, and petulant, like a small and sullen child denied her sweets. I had no just cause for such a disposition. Of course, my mind fumbled for a string of paltry excuses—there had been traffic (there is always traffic), and the world, as ever, seemed full of unrelenting imbeciles. I was hungry, perhaps. Yet even that was weak, considering Jack had gone out of his way to prepare one of my favorite dinners, which now waited patiently on the walnut table.

The truth, wretched and unromantic, was simple: exhaustion. Self-inflicted, shamefully unmanaged, and wholly undeserved by those around me. There was even a chilled glass of Sauvignon Blanc glistening next to the steaming pizza, but its pale invitation did nothing to soothe me. My mood only blackened as I moved through the house, trailing storm clouds like billowing skirts behind me, stewing over trifles as though they bore great weight.

Jack—sweet, maddening Jack—had prepared everything with his usual care. The room was warm and waiting: towels soft as fluff, protection wrapped in gold foil, and gentle oil rested patiently on the nightstand. The bed had been dressed with waterproof fleece in quiet anticipation. It should have made me melt. Instead, it made me bristle. I did not need him to do these things for me. I was capable of caring for myself—or so my pride insisted, irrational and irate. He was doing nothing he hadn’t done before, always attentive, always tender. Yet tonight, I would not let him win. I would not play.

Even the weather seemed determined to betray me. The last breath of winter had fled, and the forecast now promised nothing but the cruel blaze of summer…in April! And still, Jack remained chipper, his voice light, making small talk, brushing gently against my mood without trying to fix it. His patience was the worst of all. He would not engage in the battle I wanted. He would not sharpen the lightning I needed to throw. It was frustratingly adorable.

The only sliver of sky in my storm-wracked soul came when he mentioned his Saturday surprise: a Bee & Books festival. A balm of sorts, and I felt the faintest thaw as I thought about walking the festival together and what I might wear. I acknowledged it with a small wry smile, trying to add a teasing lilt to my voice as I said, “Your offering is accepted.” After all, I was a tempest queen, sullen and sovereign, unwilling to yield. He had done nothing wrong—he never did—and as always, he bore my storms with the quiet strength of the saints.

I turned to my homework assignments, fingers striking the keys of my laptop like hail against glass—sharp, rushed, and mildly dramatic. I typed out words for a peer discussion I didn’t particularly care about, scribbling thoughts that barely passed for earnest. I wasn’t angry, not truly—I was just tired, and everything felt heavier than it ought. I let the mood linger around me like fog, knowing it would pass, but not quite ready to let it go.

Drapped in a floor-length nightgown of indecisive taupe—that strange shade between the hush of gray and the hum of brown—I looked nothing like the birthday gift I’d hoped to be for the pending arrival of the Woodsman. The only redeeming detail was the black lace that hugged my bosom like a lover’s hand, accentuating what it dared not touch. Still, I was more wrapped in comfort than seduction, swaddled in weariness, a wilted offering.

Even when the Woodsman arrived, my little hailstorm persisted. I was still furiously tapping out the last of my notes, jaw tight, fingers striking the keyboard with a rhythm that felt more like retaliation than composition. Between sentences, I gesticulated with far too much vehemence, speaking to the Woodsman in tones laced with more ire than grace, attempting—poorly—to justify my wretched mood. My mind, still cloaked in storm clouds, would not yield to his charming, grounding presence.

Neither gentleman deserved the weather of me, and I knew it. I winced inwardly at my display, shame slipping like cold water down my spine as I closed the laptop—grateful, at least, that I had the wherewithal not to slam it. A new device was not in my budget.

Ever the gallant gentlemen, Jack and the Woodsman settled on the couch with an ease that only seemed to deepen my ire. Their voices—light, sincere, infuriating—rose in warm, companionable laughter, a sound that felt like sunshine slicing through my storm. Why did people have to be so happy?

I donned a mask of lightheartedness, joining them with all the charm I could muster—only to be reminded to brush my teeth and give one more toss to my curls. After a long day, a few strands rebelled, curling just enough to betray my mood.

As I brushed my teeth and fumed, their serenity grated against my nerves like sandpaper on a sunburn. With a sigh, I gathered myself and strode into the living room to summon them. It was time. Why was I like this? I didn’t even want to be with myself!

Looking back, I realize what I truly needed then was to be taken in hand—irritable brattiness and all. Scooped up. Tossed onto the bed. Dealt with thoroughly until every last ache and bruise begged for mercy. My Inner Goddess haughtily sniffed, “As if!” At least she was starting to show up.

Just as I reached the bedroom door, I nearly collided with Jack. Always aware and respectful, he’d given me a bit of space and now followed with gentle intention. Pausing before me, Jack reiterated—again—that nothing needed to happen tonight. That we could rain-check the entire affair and simply curl together on the couch with a favorite show flickering before us.

If it was reverse psychology, it worked. If it was genuine kindness, it irritated me further. I didn’t want it fixed. I didn’t want it cancelled. That was my decision to make. And oh, how I resented the rationality of it all.

I wish I could say that I did not huff and give a slight roll of my eyes with exaggerated annoyance, but that would be most untrue. At least the Woodsman had momentarily stepped out for water and did not witness my latest tantrum. Wordlessly, I slipped the narrow ribbons of my nightgown off my shoulders. The heavy fabric surrendered, gliding down my frame like dusk sliding into nightfall, pooling around my ankles with a hush. Chin up, I dared Jack with my eyes—dared him to try tenderness again.

And right on cue, the nerves arrived.

I had yet to figure out how to move effortlessly between small talk and into decadent surrender. I was still awkward. Still unsure. How I wished there was a tincture on my nightstand—something for momentary amnesia—so I could forget myself entirely and meet them in the realm of heat and instinct.

Instead, I lay down on the bed, my bad mood still flickering like static in the air. Every little thing—the too-firm pillow, the whisper of cool air against my skin—grated at me for absolutely no good reason.

Gods, I was awful.

I was too tangled in my own weather to even properly chastise myself. And yet, I was astounded—truly—that Jack had not seized upon one of the dozen opportunities to ignite a battle. He could have matched my sharpness, answered my barbs with a cool edge, and spun my petty squall into a full-blown hurricane. But he hadn’t.

His handsome face remained serene, composed in that maddening way that suggested obliviousness—but I knew him too well. Jack was never oblivious. He observed everything, quietly cataloguing my moods with the patience of a man who’d weathered many tempests and chosen, still, to remain beneath my stormy skies.

Instead, he leaned over me and kissed my lips—a kiss that deepened like twilight, speaking wordlessly of his undying devotion. It wasn’t what I wanted. Or perhaps it was exactly what I needed.

With a silent, internal, and dramatic sigh, I relinquished control to the part of me that waited in the wings, patient and salaciously wicked. She rose like heat from the forest floor, slow and inevitable: my Inner Goddess, all shadowed fire and wild bloom.

You manage it, I thought dryly, flinging the reins of control at her with a flick of my hand, like a sulky queen dismissing her court. If I couldn’t be charming, perhaps she could. She always did have a taste for drama.

Two men awaited me—now bare, now burning—and it was no longer my storm to navigate.

Jack released my lips just as the Woodsman—quiet as mist, precise as a trained hunter—moved onto the bed to my left. There was no sound to his approach, only presence. And with my Inner Goddess now at the helm, everything felt smoother. More fluid. More inevitable.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, my eyes fluttering shut as his mouth found mine—deep, rich, all earth and musk and restrained hunger. My body, once coiled in mood and fatigue, began to melt into the heat of his raw masculinity. His kiss growing in passion and depth as his hands held me tight to him. 

With my Inner Goddess in control, my movements needy and purposeful, hips shifting, hands exploring. My earlier grumpiness slipped away like a forgotten shawl dropped to the floor. I let my fingers roam the expanse of the Woodsman’s broad chest, his shoulders, the taut cords of muscle beneath skin that felt like bark warmed in sunlight.

Then I felt Jack.

He had slid down the bed with practiced ease, settling between my parted thighs like a man returning to sacred ground. My Inner Goddess let out a soft, appreciative moan as he began to worship my pearl in earnest—his mouth reverent, his tongue delivering adoration in slow, lapping strokes.

This kind of devotion from Jack was rare—not for lack of desire, nor any faltering in skill, but because of the sacred toll demanded by my inner sanctum and the near-constant ache that haunted the hollows of my body. But tonight, under the hush of candlelight and the press of strong hands, anything felt possible. The ethos itself shimmered with permission.

Jack deepened his ministrations, drawing cries from my lips—raw and unrepentant—while the Woodsman’s hands continued their slow pilgrimage across my skin. His touch was familiar, yes, but never predictable; always electric, as though his fingers knew secrets my body had yet to confess. Now that my Inner Goddess reigned, my body moved without hesitation, and I eased into the rhythm—the sacred cadence of death and rebirth, of pleasure cresting and crashing like waves across my soul.

And then—like fluid gods striding the earth—they traded places.

Having graciously ignored the thorns of my earlier mood, these celestial men, cloaked in mortal form, turned their full and terrible devotion upon me. Jack’s mouth claimed mine again, wet with longing, as his hands stroked and kneaded me with the slow, inexorable patience of a fire-tender coaxing embers into a blaze. His touch lit every inch of me,and each breath fanned higher, hotter, until the ache in my core flared into flame.

The Woodsman, meanwhile, made no hasty claim. I had modestly drawn my legs together—propriety’s last stand and reflexively, my delicate chilled by the air that cooled the still-slick memory of Jack’s mouth. It was a delicate moment of transition, and my skin prickled with awareness.

He did not part my legs with hands or expectation.

He worshiped instead—with lips like oaths.

Beginning at the arch of my foot, he pressed a kiss like a vow into my skin. Reverent, unhurried, he traced his way upward: along the curve of my calf, over the subtle swell of my knee, then slowly—achingly—up the tender line of my inner thigh. I gasped, moaned, arched, the cold long forgotten, distracted by the searing imprint of every kiss. Above me, Jack’s mouth found my breast—his tongue a hot ribbon tracing fire along flesh until my very nipple quivered at his touch.

The Woodsman descended again, charting my opposite side with mirrored devotion: down the other thigh, around the knee, across the calf to the top of my foot. The treatment was maddeningly regal. And when my legs finally parted—not because they were taken, but because they could no longer bear to be closed—the invitation was unmistakable, and my body was ready.

Jack had set the coals ablaze.

The Woodsman fed the fire.

Giving his tongue a moment’s respite, he slid two thick fingers inside me with unerring grace—finding, with knowing instinct, that pulsing ache nestled deep within. I cried out, hips lifting to meet him, my body a taut string drawn to its breaking point.

And then—his mouth descended.

He drank from me with savage reverence, as though my pleasure were a sacrament, as though my very essence might grant him absolution. My breath tangled in my throat. My body writhed. And still—I clung to the dam, holding back the flood of nectar for fear that, if loosed, it would drown him.

But he gave no quarter.
No mercy.
Only worship.
And so, fiercely holding onto the dam of my nectar, I shattered.

My scream tore from my throat, the cry of a goddess undone.

The roar of my destruction echoed into the heavens, and the stars themselves startled at the force of it.

The Woodsman slowed, his touch gentling, granting my shudders time to ebb, allowing breath to once again unfurl within my lungs. Above me, Jack lifted his head from supple breast. His mouth curled in that maddening, irresistible smirk, a mischievous glint dancing in his eye.

“I don’t think you’re angry anymore.”

Laughter burst from me—unbidden, unruly, and bright. Mirth tangled with mock-annoyance as I tipped my head back and laughed like a woman unmasked. Gods of Olympus, he was right. Of course, I could not possibly admit it. I would not concede that I had been a terrible little thunderstorm nor confess that their divine attentions had chased every gloomy cloud from my sky. How dare he?!

At Jack’s wicked little jab, the Woodsman sat upright. So did I—grinning, flushed, utterly undone—as I turned to glare with mock severity at my love, swatting his chest with the full might of my scandalized affection.

The last remnants of tension—those stubborn, coiled shadows—melted from my body at last, leaving only the golden hum of surrender and anticipation in their wake.

And a good thing too…
for the gods were far from finished.

Arranged on all fours—flush, hungry—I barely had time to draw breath before Jack moved behind me with that quiet, dangerous confidence he wore like a second skin. His hands closed around my hips—firm, assured—anchoring me to the moment with the promise of what was coming. My breath hitched. Hunger sparked through the haze of satisfaction, licking its way up my spine.

The Woodsman stood before me, waiting. The sight of him made my mouth part, my tongue darting to wet my lips in silent invitation. Then I took him in—deliberate, unashamed. My lips wrapped around him with purpose, no decorum. I moaned around him, messy and loud, hands sliding beneath to cradle and worship him in the only language I knew. A birthday gift. And an apology.

But neither of them asked for penance.

They only demanded everything.

And gods help me—I gave it.

I arched, not in submission, but in raw, aching need. My hands gripped the sheets. Curses tangled in my throat as Jack’s first thrust landed—a brutal, perfect collision of want and power. Pleasure did not come softly; it surged through me like a tempest—wild, untamed, and all-consuming.

I was surrounded. Possessed.

Their hands and mouths no longer gave whispers of worship. They demanded surrender. They weren’t just touching me—they were claiming me, body and soul, with a ruthless tenderness that left no room for denial. I wasn’t an altar. I wasn’t a shrine.

I was a woman laid bare before ancient gods.

And they moved like they’d done this a thousand times—this rhythm, this battle, this wreckage—each man in sync with the other, like wolves circling flame. I wasn’t being adored.

I was being ravaged.

And in that ravishment, I was reborn.

The room swam with heat and shadow. Jack’s hips slammed behind me like thunder, driving me forward into the Woodsman’s stalwart hips. The headboard groaned in protest, every strike of wood on the wall echoing through my bones. Somewhere, I hoped the cat had found safety.

Because there was no saving me.

And somewhere, in the depths of this sacred violence, as I found myself once more laid bare upon the bed, a masculine hand clamped around my throat, firm and commanding, expertly restricting my breath. A god’s ruthless desire sought the very ruin of my garden, his power holding me in thrall.

I felt myself finally slip into oblivion.

The next moments blurred—decadent, brutal in their beauty. My nectar, long hoarded behind trembling restraint, burst free in a violent bloom. It gushed from me in sudden, gleaming torrents—diamonds flung from a shattered crown. Their fingers worked in wicked tandem, pressing that maddening pulse against the secret jewel within. And then—withdrawal. Not to pause, but to punish. The flat slap of their rigid glories battering against the tender swell of my pearl, each impact a war drum calling fresh floods to rise. Unusual, yes—but utterly astonishing.

This wasn’t new. Not entirely. But it had become more…familiar. My body, once slow to yield, now unraveled like parchment to flame. The sheer obscenity of it—how easily I shattered beneath their cadence—would have scandalized the woman I once was. Now? It thrilled her. Every spasm, every spill, felt like a hymn to something darker, older. Who would have thought such ruthless rhythm could summon such eager surrender?

They were thorough—gods in flesh, merciless in their craftsmanship. I soaked the waterproof fleece beneath me, left sprawling in a cool, glistening pool of my own release. A swift exchange for fresh fabric was needed—my body’s offerings had saturated the first with the kind of ruin only they could conjure. Once draped in modesty, I now lounged like a lioness—powerful, sleek, and utterly satisfied.

My thoughts, once fluttering birds, scattered entirely, overtaken by the sheer magnitude of sensation. I could feel them swelling within me, their thick, unyielding lengths dragging against every tender nerve, every fluttering ribbon of pleasure strung taut inside my womb. Their glories moved in unrelenting rhythm, crowns rubbing deep against the seat of my lust until my nectar spilled like holy oil.

My body arched and writhed, legs trembling, then shaking—slung high over broad shoulders or pressed flat and open against the sodden fleece. The headboard slammed a percussive rhythm against the wall, near to shattering, as though the very frame sought to break under the weight of our divine ruin. And still, they did not falter. Still, they did not show mercy. 

My pulse thundered, a wild and aching, each beat echoing in the clutch of my Inner Goddess, the swell of my breasts, the desperate cries I could not contain. Their fingers gripped my thighs like vices, their mouths growling low blessings against the crook of my neck, my jaw, my temple, my apex.

Every thrust stole breath and gave ecstasy. Every motion was a reckoning.

And then—it softened. It slowed.

The riot of motion gave way to hush. Their hands, once fists and fury, gentled. Their mouths, once filled with groans and growls, murmured quiet lullabies—words without weight, without need for reply. Fingers traced the battlefield of my skin, mapping the contours of our undoing with reverent curiosity. The air still throbbed, thick with lust and triumph, but we had crossed a threshold—into something quieter. Sated. Raw.

And then…

Guilt, that cold familiar, slipped between the warmth of my skin and pressed sharp beneath my ribs. This was the Woodsman’s birthday. His night. And I… I had been tempestuous. Difficult. A poor hostess in the opening notes of our affair.

What if I had given too little? What if my surrender had been too selfish—wrapped too tightly in my own ache, too inattentive to his needs, his wants?

The thought needled at me, unwelcome and persistent, even as their fingers moved across my skin—soft now, reverent—trailing here and there along my back, the curve of my hip, the dip of my thigh.

We rose and dressed in the slow, unhurried way of bodies thoroughly used and souls wrung clean. The Woodsman pulled on his T-shirt in silence, movements simple, unassuming. There was no need for ceremony—only the scrape of fabric, the clink of glass, the hush of two men who had shared something unspeakably intimate with me and with one another.

At the door, he clasped Jack’s hand in brotherly camaraderie, and I stepped into his arms, wrapping mine around him in a quiet embrace.

“Happy birthday,” I whispered.

Not wrapped in ribbon or grace. But meant. Gods, it was meant.

A final kiss brushed my lips, and then he was gone, swallowed by the velvet hush of night.

Jack and I lingered in the silence, the kind that settles only after something holy. His fingers idled across the curve of my spine as I sipped the last of the wine, its warmth curling in my belly like a final offering.

And still, that stubborn thought hovered—guilt, pale and precise. This had been the Woodsman’s night. His celebration. I nibbled my bottom lip, promising I  would do better next time.

Later, as I climbed into bed beside Jack, his breath even and close, the sheets drawn up to our shoulders, exhaustion finally claimed me.

And yet, in the hush of the dark, one question remained.

Had I been gift enough?

Until next time, XO. Elsie