May 2026 – Listen Here

In reflection, I feel a wee bit like an old crone before her jewel-lined coffer – lifting each memory to the light, turning it slowly, smiling at the decadence of it… at the sheer, glittering indecency of pleasure remembered.

The Woodsman had scarcely left when my insatiable Inner Goddess began her prodding – ever insistent, ever demanding – and so I found the courage to invite him back just a few days later. 

Saturday had been stolen from me – a merciless migraine that left me nestled in a veritable nest of pillows, absent from the world, missing the mischief, weeping in the dim hush of my velvet-dark living room. By Sunday, the storm had passed to a tolerable echo. I was relieved… and triumphantly thrilled by my own boldness, eager to greet the Woodsman without the stress and flustered disarray of days prior.

This time, I was composed. Intentional.

The smallest petal-pink lace panties.

A sapphire crisscross bra, chosen with particular care. 

The bed lay out in all its plush glory – protected with waterproof fleece (and, prudently, a spare set aside… if the previous affair was anything to go by).
The air cooled to a languid chill – 68 degrees, a cocoon.
Music murmuring low, like a secret waiting to be told.

We sat together first, as though we had always done so. Conversation came easily. He took my feet into his hands, coaxing out the stubborn knots, and there was something deeply grounding in it – a tension that had held me just shy of fully settling into myself. 

And then… my Inner Goddess – brazen, unrepentant – leaned forward within me. 

I knelt on my knees before him, a fluttering nervous anticipation behind my ribs, and asked – gently, but without retreat – if he would like to see what lay beneath my clothes. 

His reaction, as I peeled away my top…

Ah.

Everything a woman might dare to hope for.

The widening of his eyes.
The bob of his Adam’s Apple.
The way his hands seemed to forget restraint, moving with a will all their own.

And just like that, I was gathered up – drawn into him, into those full, devastating kisses, into the unmistakable scent of forest and earth.

Naturally, I protested when he lifted me – but I meant none of it as I banded my arms about his neck. Laughter spilled from me instead as he carried me toward my bed, and I found myself delighting in the bright, careless sound of it. 

This time… it did not feel like a beginning.

It was the dangerous familiarity of lovers already acquainted with one another’s ruin. 

Hunger remained, oh yes, but it was now threaded with understanding. With cadence. With recognition.

His fingers, slicked with my own need, traced their knowing paths through the silken folds between my thighs. 

The way he stretched along the mattress, as though the world had narrowed to the singular privilege of devouring me.

The wicked iniquity of his mouth on my pussy. 

And then – my small, humming vibrator, confiscated and repurposed in his hands.

There was brilliance in the orchestration – the sumptuous layering of sensation upon sensation until coherent thought evaporated. He teased my pearl first with merciless attentiveness, watching my lips darken and throb around the instrument before easing the device inside me. Then, ever vigilant to my every reaction, he worked it in measured strokes, each thrust governed with cataclysmic precision while his tongue circled, flicked, and tormented in tandem. 

Gods… it was everything I could do not to cry out loud enough to scandalize the walls.

And when I tried to escape the onslaught, my form quivering and overwhelmed beyond reason, his powerful arms only tightened around me, keeping me precisely where he wished me to remain… beneath the corrupting devotion of his mouth. 

I remember rising above him then, impaled, hair in glorious disarray, moving, rupturing, reforming. Nothing guided, everything surrendered. There was freedom in it… to take, to pause, to shatter, to steady myself against the breadth of his chest while my lungs fought to remember their rhythm.  

In one of those suspended intervals, he asked, almost curiously, if I enjoyed the drag of nails along my skin – to be scratched.

My answer came without hesitation.

“Yes!” I nearly blurted, far too earnestly. Internally, I chastised myself for the unladylike response… but it was the truth. 

I liked, no, craved to be marked.

There was something profoundly wanton in the lingering sting that followed. In the violet ghosts of bruises – treacherous little souvenirs left by the hands that had gripped my body so possessively. 

He listened. Carefully. Intently.

Reaching around me, his nails traced from shoulder to waist – tentative at first, not deep enough to leave their remembrance behind – and I felt the hesitation ripple through him. Had he gone too far? 

My Inner Goddess answered in my stead.

I arched into him, a salacious sound escaping me as heat unfurled beneath his touch.

Gods… how he listened.

Because what followed…Refuses to be tamed by language.

It resists language. It defies it.

On my back beneath him, my pussy already stretched to the boundary of endurance, the fullness of his cock demanding everything…every nerve, every fracturing cry…

And then the agonizing, contrived path of his nails carving from shoulder to elbow, leaving their heated signature in their wake… down ribs, across hips, along the length of my thigh.

It was unbearable.

It was insufficient.

It was everything. 

My body betrayed me – shaking, convulsing, cresting into an orgasm that felt nearly catastrophic, as though I had split open simply to survive the enormity of it. 

And when release reached its zenith – so violently it displaced him – I scarcely found breath before he brutally drove back into me, and the world collapsed once more into that impossible fullness as I clung to him, a mortal unraveling within her own ruin. 

Again.
And again.

Until I was nothing but fever and rapture – until the sheets were thoroughly soaked once more.

After… We rested. Sprawled, naked, entirely unashamed.

We talked.

Shared pieces of ourselves that seemed to come easier in the wake of such intimacy.

It continues to astonish me – how the heart yields when the body has been known so completely. How words lose their armor, becoming freer… more honest.

I liked that vulnerability. The strange tenderness of it. How intimacy, once consummated, seemed to loosen every guarded thing within me.

After a time, when conversation had settled into a comfortable lull, the Woodsman – attentive, indulgent creature that he was – returned to me once more. 

Settling between my legs with a focus that felt almost sacred – yet edged with something predatory enough to curl my toes and stir my Inner Goddess to life again. 

His gaze – fixed, unwavering upon my hazel eyes – reduced me to nothing but anticipation, my pulse fluttering so wildly I nearly forgot how to breathe as I watched him stretched between my thighs. 

Beginning anew.

The sum of it – his mouth, his beard, his hands, the hum and pulse of the vibrator he once more commandeered and wielded so savagely alongside the finesse of his tongue  – 

It was…

Indescribable.

Language fails at such moments. There are no proper words for them – at least, not ones inclined toward obedience.

The Woodsman did not cease until I had cried out to the old gods and the new in a language I did not know.

In time, the world resumed its shape, much like the afternoon light – lengthening, burnishing, draping itself around us in molten gold. 

And within that lingering afterglow… that shared, suspended pause…

I found contentment.
A deep, immovable well of gratitude.

And for a little while, I was… simply, exquisitely happy. 

Until next time, XO. Elsie