May 2025

I had only meant to say goodbye.

He lay still, so still, upon his back, the kind of stillness that belongs only to the deepest hours of sleep, where even dreams dare not stir the body. His chest rose and fell with a slow, rhythmic certainty, and in that gentle rhythm, something in me stirred. Blinking away my sleepiness, I rolled from my side, once content to let the barrier of sleep and silence lie between us, and melted across him like a spring mist drawn to warmth.

My head found its rightful place in the hollow at his shoulder, the dip I’d claimed time and again in the hush of the bedroom. My breasts pressed flush against the steady beat of his heart. One leg draped languidly over his hips, the calf slipping between his thighs in relaxed abandon. My hair spilled across the pillow behind me like a veil, and the arm that held him drew just a little tighter over his broad chest, willing our souls into proximity no earthly distance could measure.

Sleep still brushed my lashes. I was cradled between realms, half in reverie, half alive with something deeper. The accord we had reached the night before birthed a serenity that still curled inside me: our talk, the weight of understanding had left my soul feeling rethreaded, newly whole. But beneath that tranquility stirred my need, the ever-present yearning from my inner sanctum, my Inner Goddess awake and stretching her limbs.

I had only meant to say goodbye to him as he slept unperturbed by the demands of a new day. One last whisper of flesh on flesh. My alarm had already screamed its summons. Dawn would not wait for me. And yet… I began to rock my hips, slowly, instinctively, letting the gentle press of my thigh over his hip ignite the unspoken. Behind my closed eyes, flashes of heat bloomed, colorful, carnal daydreams unwinding like a reel of forbidden cinema. Blast my Inner Goddess.

I should have stopped. He was still sleeping. Still lost in some softer plane. But then he stirred…didn’t he? Was it my wishful Inner Goddess willing him from Morpheus’ realm and into mine?

But oh, he stirred.

And with that shift, my Inner Goddess smiled wickedly.

I gave in.

I slid my leg to drape over his nearer thigh, revealing his masculinity to the twinkling stars. My hand gilded downward, over the savannah of his abdomen, the sacred slope of his Adonis Belt, until I found him. Heavy, velveted heat, resting in my palm like something numinous. I cupped his weighty jewels gently, reverently, my thumb stroking across the tender flesh, drawing the softest groan from the shadowed dark.

My teeth found my bottom lip. 

I was too far gone now. The treasure I held was already stirring, thickening with exquisite urgency. My fingers curled around his length, slow and sure, and I began to stroke, a soft, coaxing ritual. His hips twitched beneath me, and the arm he had draped across my waist tightened, his body responding even as his soul still floated somewhere between sleep and surrender.

My hips moved of their own accord, seeking pressure, seeking friction, the ache blooming fast and deep as I pressed against him. I whispered into the shadows, wordless sighs, morning moans, breath caught in the throat of longing.

Still I stroked.

He grew harder, thicker, my victory pulsing in my hand. Whatever last tendril of tension or disconnection that had lingered between us from the night before dissolved like fog in the warmth of our rising desire. There was no awkwardness now. No hesitancy. Only the promise of something sacred.

“Enough.”

She rose in me then, my Inner Goddess, my want, my power, and I sat up slowly, drawing myself over him, one knee at a time, to straddle his hips. I looked down upon him, his figure swathed in darkness, aching to be worshiped in turn.

Mascara I had not bothered to remove clung in dusky clumps to my lashes, and the once-sharp wing of my eyeliner now smudged beneath my eyes like war paint worn by a goddess of midnight. My hair crowned me in wild, rock ‘ n ‘ roll glory. Wisps of my tousled halo floated about me, caught in the current of the slow spiral of the ceiling fan above. I should have felt undone, a creature of disarray and ruin. But instead, I felt sovereign and regal. Desired. As though I were some mythic queen of old, riding out before dawn, claiming my right to love and be loved in kind.

From the drawer, I drew the small vial of oil, the glass cool in my palm. I popped the cap and let the crystal richness pool across my fingers. My hand slid between my thighs, and I gasped softly at the welcome heat, the slick readiness that pulsed in answer to my touch. My breath quickened as I smoothed the oil over him, slow and sacral, each stroke a silent invocation. He stirred in my hand, and I hovered above him, queenly and aching, using the crown of him to tease across my pearl in a slow, swirling dance of promise.

And then, gloriously, I took him in.

Inch by trembling inch, I sheathed him within me, my body opening in sacred offering, as though the very act of enveloping him would heal every fracture of my heart. I held my breath as I settled over him, my thighs trembling with the weight of desire, of worship, of possession. Sleep and sunrise mingled around us like incense and fog, and in that moment of exquisite stillness…

I simply breathed.

Yes. This

And in that breath, in that hush of pre-dawn gold and holy ache, I could no longer tell where I ended and he began.

I adored how sleepily, patiently he waited beneath me, still wrapped in the thick tendrils of slumber. Yet I knew, knew with a certainty that the ancient magic of man simmered just beneath his skin. That quiet readiness. That sacred ache to give, to receive, to be claimed ,and to cherish in return. And with that knowledge, I began to rise and fall.

My body moved with the inevitability of tides, my senses narrowed to the monolith cradled between my thighs, the way his bulbous crown stretched my sanctuary each time I lifted, nearly releasing him, only to sink again… every inch a divine descent. The veined fullness of him awoke a thousand nerve endings in me, sent shivers spidering through my skin like electrified lace.

Up and down I rose, with a rhythm ever-shifting, attuned only to my body’s wants, never content with sameness. My chest heaved as my fingers curled into the corded muscle of his chest, anchoring myself to his strength. His hands, once gentle upon my waist, slid downward, over the rounded, lush span of my hips, until he cupped my derrière, kneading the soft flesh as he began to take the rhythm from me. No longer rising and falling, I was drawn into a new motion, a grinding, pulsing dance that rubbed my pearl against the firm ridge of his pubic bone. I moaned, head tipped back, a sound of pure offering.

My bliss had not yet crested, and that did not trouble my mind. This was not a moment for hurried gasps or feral possession. No—this was midnight alchemy, patient and perfumed, wrought in silence and flesh. It was a sacrament, whispered between joined bodies and the hush before dawn.

Like spoonfuls of Devonshire cream or ribbons of opulent chocolate slurred with golden caramel, I savored every motion. Each sensation curled through my marrow, saturated my soul in sacred sweetness. His hips arched with aching precision, pressing deeper, coaxing forth cries from a place I had almost forgotten. He touched some antediluvian hollow carved only for him. His grip roughened, not cruel but consecrated, and I gasped, a sound torn from the altar of my chest, as pressure swelled within me like magma rising in a sacred mountain.

It was coming.

Still cloaked in utter darkness, we moved as one, needing no candlelight, no speech, only this hush, this hour stolen from the world. The eruption surged at last, molten and inexorable, a seismic offering poured from my very soul. I collapsed forward, forehead to forehead, our noses brushing, breath mingled, a sacrament shared in perfect synchronicity.

He moved then, liturgical as a priest in his monastery, pressing his chest to mine, eliminating all air, all distance between us. His lips and hands turned to benediction once more, crossing the soft rise of my right breast. He cupped, kneaded, thumbed the peak until I moaned into his mouth, dizzy with afterglow. Then his face shifted, nuzzling the left with a quiet devotion that made my breath stutter, before drawing the nipple into his mouth. That warm, silken pull unraveled me anew, my spine arching, thighs trembling as his whiskered mouth reawakened my insatiable Inner Goddess.

Only when he had bathed each peak in adoration did he move again, wrapping his arms around me and sitting up, still sheathed in the velvet walls of my devotion. With exquisite care, he lowered me to the bed, never breaking our bond. His offering remained within, a pulsing tether of flesh and soul.

There were no words. None were needed. The moment sat cathedral-still, cradled in hush and heartbeat.

He began to move again, not in dominance, but in an erotic baptism of psalm. The rhythm rose between us, old as time, a song of the masculine and the feminine coiling in sacred unity. At just the right moment, he slipped his muscular right arm beneath my left knee, guiding it up to rest against his chest. The right tucked high across his shoulder, where my head had nestled not moments before. I met the shift instinctively, fingers curling into the swell of his biceps for anchorage as the new angle scattered stars across my vision like falling meteors.

This was our secret posture. No name. Only knowing.

Each thrust found the sunken well inside me, that place only he could reach. Every grind lit fireworks. The bulbous head of him, so full, so thick, stroked me with precision until the rhythm became something desperate and immortal. The sounds of us, slick and fluid, rhythmic and unashamed, rose like a hymn and drowned the quiet of morning.

And when the end came, it was not just climax. It was a coronation.

The guttural cry that escaped me was both triumph and surrender. I felt his body convulse inside mine, once, twice, three times. My own responded tenfold, not just to the physical culmination, but to the presence of him, to the moment of being known, filled, adored. 

A sacred release. A whispered vow.

And my Inner Goddess wept.

Not for sorrow, but for the terrible beauty of being utterly seen and loved.

He took his time breaking our connection, and I loved him fiercely for it. So often, the phantoms of my past had spent themselves with haste, vanishing as though to linger would tarnish them irreparably. The severing always left me startled, chilled, drifting, forced to cradle my own ache with trembling hands and no steady weight to ground me.
But that was the past.

My Love lingered as long as he dared. His broad hand moved with reverent purpose, soothing the lightning still flickering beneath my skin. His lips, soft and unhurried, brushed the rise of my breasts. His grizzled cheek nuzzled mine, warm and bristled, before he placed a kiss, light, aching, upon the vulnerable hollow of my neck. Fingers traced the lengths of my thighs, and I felt sanctified by the tenderness, exalted in the flushed, panting hush that followed our sacred affair. Had I opened my eyes, I’m quite certain I would have seen myself emitting a faint glow, effulgent beneath his touch, beneath the blessing of a thousand voyeuristic stars.

With a sigh edged in reluctance, he slowly, agonizingly, drew back, withdrawing his glory with aching finesse. My body arched toward the parting, unsated, desperate, ignited anew by the exquisite torment of his restraint. He settled beside me, and the contented hush of his sigh filled my chest with something perilously close to rapture.

I knew the hour of my departure crept ever closer, that dull and dutiful summons. Yet still, my Inner Goddess stirred annoyingly restless, writhing, flushed with unspent longing that pulsed just beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. I whispered hollow promises to my sensible self, vowing that I would be quick, that I would hurry through my morning ablutions like a penitent. But even as the words formed in my mind, my treacherous fingers reached for the slender device secreted in the headboard, desire outweighing discipline.

At the first whisper of its hum, my smile curled, slow, sly, wicked with knowing. My Love shifted beside me, the heat of his body a tide I was powerless to resist. One broad hand slipped to the gentle rise of my breast, and his sin-laced touch rekindled the ache with maddening precision. The device thrummed in devoted rhythm against the sovereign throb at my apex, an obedient servant to my every hungry tremble.

My fingers curled into the sheets. My jaw locked tight as my lashes fluttered shut, and behind my eyes bloomed a slow, sultry reel of carnal visions, half memory, half fantasy, all shameless indulgence. I pressed my brow to the sinewed slab of his shoulder, dragging in his scent, salt and skin, earth and sleep, musk and man. So unmistakably him. His hands moved with unerring certainty, a priest of my body, fluent in every shiver, every gasp. His ministrations stoked the fire rising in my belly, until my hips tilted with blind, begging instinct. And I gave in, helpless and greedy, to the ecstasy he coaxed from the ravenous core of my Inner Goddess.

Mutely, I increased the speed.

My bliss unfurled, a celestial bloom opening at the summit of the sun, radiance drawn from the depths of my soul. A sweet agony drawn from the deepest hollows of me. My Inner Goddess arched, trembling on the precipice, crowned in sweat and splendor, as flame licked along my thighs and climbed toward the summit of my undoing. The bloom swelled, luscious and consuming, I hovered on the very brink, I could see the glorious undoing just within reach…just beyond my feathered tips of my wings, the silent scream held trembling on the cusp of release…and then…

Nothing.

A silence. A death knell. The device had gone mute in my hand, still, cold, traitorous.

“No,” I cried, the word a violent rupture in the midnight hush, too crude for the velvet elegance of the room. A fractured laugh broke loose, brittle, trembling, masking the sting of tears not quite born. I had been so close. My swollen pearl, willful and wrathful, suffered no second chances, no pitiful substitutions. I was undone.

With a sympathetic chuckle, My Love offered only warmth and worship in reply. He scattered kisses across my skin like holy alms, his fingers descending in whispered consolation. They circled low and slow over my abandoned ache, coaxing, imploring. Back and forth… back and forth… I clenched my jaw, holding tight against the swell. If he dared a little deeper, if he crossed that final, shivering threshold, he could summon a different kind of rapture, one drenched in dangerous liturgy, strong enough to shatter my restraint and baptize me in flooded bliss.

“No,” I gasped, the protest feeble even to my own ears as I tried, foolishly, to pull away, while everything in me ached to remain, to entwine with him, to sleep within the cradle of his devotion.

 “Damn your sorcery,” I muttered, petulant and possessed by an irritable Inner Goddess.

I was already unforgivably late. A fever might excuse absence, perhaps even a stomach ailment, but no supervisor would suffer, “I was worshipped past reason and left molten with longing.”

Vexed and seething with thwarted desire, I rose, barely sated. My body still thrummed with the echoes of his reverent adoration, my soul aching with unfinished flame. I would dress. I would go. And I would spend the day straining beneath the weight of yearning, of need, my thoughts torn between the mantle of duty and the siren call of surrender. A woman unraveled by love, dragged into the daylight by necessity, haunted by the sultry rebellion of a defiant, brooding Inner Goddess. It would be a long day indeed.

Until next time, XO. Elsie