April 2025

It was a rare, precious occasion when my unruly nerves had the good sense not to appear. Perhaps it was the familiarity already woven into our casual friendship. Or perhaps it was the ache, my inescapable, ripe hunger, that had, at last, dulled all hesitation before it could rise and show its warped and unwelcome face.

The evening unfolded gently. I arrived home from a mentally taxing workday and moved through the quiet rituals of preparation: dusting, tidying, nesting into my home, and fostering a space that felt sacred and wholly mine. Then, with a sigh of contentment, I curled into the softness of my couch, scrambled eggs in one hand, a delectable old-fashioned in the other. It was a modest meal, a lone mother’s meal, yet the evening shimmered with promise as sherbert sunbeams supported the waning sky. 

A smile curled at my lips just as my phone chirped. My guest had arrived.

And within me, my Inner Goddess straightened her spine and clapped her hands in delight. How long had it been since a god, or sovereign, or Fey had requested to cross my threshold? Weeks? Had it been months? My Inner Goddess sighed dramatically. Time in her world did not align with the mortal realm, but moved like a pool, rippling, yearning, and wild.

The Warrior entered with smooth grace, greeting me with a kiss on the lips that was warm, reverent, and tinged with something just beyond the veil. He stepped into my domain confident, but not arrogant. Self-assured, but not demanding. He was a man who knew his strength and wore it like armor well-worn and gleaming. He moved with lithe control, the kind that left me aching with envy and fascination.

I returned to my little nest upon the couch, eyes riveted as he poured his libation. Then, without pretense or pause, he cuddled right beside me, leaving no space for the Holy Spirit. I was startled and delighted. In this single action, he had taken mastery and smoothly broken the awkwardness of initiating first touch, joining me with the quiet intimacy of something unspoken. I marveled at this giant of a man, so effortlessly grounded, his presence soothing the last, feeble flickers of anxiety before they could take root.

My Inner Goddess purred at his effortless calm. My breath slowed, my ribs expanding in the sweet fullness of peace. He had taken the lead, that first, daring step, closing the space between us with his massive, steady warmth. My heart beat with gratitude.

Without hesitation (okay, maybe a little), I draped my legs over his lap, folding into the familiar heat of his body. There was no fumbling, no shy recalibration. Only that magnetic stillness, two souls settling into the gravitational pull of one another.

My Inner Goddess lifted her chin with aristocratic defiance, thumbing her nose at the brittle constrictions of my youth. Nearness like this, unguarded, unrushed, had been strictly forbidden in the doctrine of my upbringing. I had never been permitted to be alone with a man, let alone curled beside one like some decadent plutonic poem come to life. And yet, here I was, my amber bourbon catching the fading light, as I nestled into the solid warmth of him, and my pulse thrummed a ticklish rhythm against my ribs.

To share this kind of tender proximity with someone I called a friend felt almost mythic, rare as violet fire. A luxurious indulgence I was usually far too wary to allow myself, too guarded to sink into. But gods, I loved the intimacy of an encompassing hug or curled like a kitten against their body. I loved feeling dainty, delicate, dwarfed by masculine gravity, cradled into armoured strength. Wrapped in another’s arms was a kind of ancestral surrender, primal and aching, the sort that made me tremble for fear I might be rejected at any moment. Or worse, that if I fully yielded to the arms encircling me, even a sliver, my walls might shatter, and I would dissolve into sobs against the sanctuary of a solid chest.

The clock ticked like a faint heartbeat, slow and sensual, marking time in sync with our low, meandering conversation. My mind purred, warm and lithe, alive with the pleasure of communion. My heart could have spoken until dawn, drinking in the rare honey of intimate fellowship.

But my Inner Goddess… she was far less patient.

Draped across her velvet chaise and veiled in a gauzy shimmer of the Milky Way, she stretched like a spoiled cat and tapped her elegant nails against the glass of my restraint. Ever aching, ever yearning, insistent.

And then, as if summoned by the silent chant of my longing, the Warrior leaned in. His gaze, molten and dark, held the weight of knowledge older than time itself. The hand that had once caressed the tender curve of my calf now glided upward, reverent as a priest, anchoring at my waist.

There was no rush, no flicker of uncertainty. He moved with deliberate grace, bringing his face closer, just enough to leave his lips hovering over mine, a mere vibrant breath between us. He waited, allowing me to close the final inch. It was an invitation throbbing with the quiet intensity of a slow-burning yes.

Barely twenty minutes had passed, and already, my Inner Goddess sang with delight at the feel of his hand resting on my waist with intention, studying me with reverent curiosity. There was no pressure, just a curiosity that stirred and uncoiled something deep in my belly.

My Inner Goddess, ever bold and untamed, had no intention of letting timidity spoil the moment. She would not defer, not hesitate, not wait until the moment had slipped past us in a sea of uncertainty. I closed the hairs’ breath between us, and when his lips finally claimed mine, it was not conquest, not demand. It was surrender, pure and untainted.

I resisted the urge to bite my lip, utterly impractical mid-kiss, of course, but the giddy impulse was there, curling deep as my toes clenched and my spine melted into the most familiar of unfamiliar pleasures. His kisses were a language all their own. They were low, and deepened with each passing second. Nevertheless, there was no urgency of time, no fumbling heat, only the velvet caress of an evening unraveling before us. The night was ours, and we would savor every single moment of it.

Somewhere in the silken tangle of mouths and breath, a laugh nearly bubbled up, girlish, disbelieving. When had I last allowed myself this pleasure, taking the time to savor the slow unfurling of lips and bodies? I felt like a teenager, tangled with a god, as life and its burdens were momentarily banished from mind and conscience thought. I stifled the fleeting thought, leaning into the urgent command of my Inner Goddess, straddling his broad thighs with carnal certainty.

My fingers traced the silken drape of his shirt, lingering over the radiant heat that pulsed beneath it. Desire stirred low in my belly, uncoiling in pulsing waves, rising and falling like some echoing tide summoned by moonlight. Between kisses, some deep, others playful with curiosity, my hands roamed the sculpted terrain of his body: over the formidable breadth of his biceps, and across the unrelenting plane of his chest, carved as though by ancient gods for the sake of mortal women’s adoration. Beneath my palms, his heartbeat thudded boom, boom, boom. It was a warrior’s anthem resonating beneath the temple of his ribs.

I pressed my knees to either side of his hips, straddling his powerful thighs, grounding myself over the swelling promise of his desire. His mouth descended along the slope of my neck, where he stumbled, accidentally, divinely, upon the hidden weakness I so rarely revealed. A place only expert lovers sought, one he… he discovered with the attentiveness of a man listening for a holy name in the wind. His lips widened. Bared teeth grazed tender flesh, a wicked drag that held just shy of pressure, of puncture. Not feral, not animal. But decadent. Salacious. A gesture crafted not for dominance but for delight. For mine.

My Inner Goddess, already boneless from his adoration, sighed into the liquifying pooling of pleasure. It was time, surely, to move to the bedroom. Or perhaps not. A part of me longed to linger here in this audacious sanctity of making out, unhurried, unashamed, as the last blush of spring’s twilight crept along the walls.

And still, he moved with that same patient reverence, as though I were something not to be conquered but to be revealed. His hands slipped beneath the hem of my polka-dot blouse, seeking and finding the lace bralette beneath: a whisper of femininity, delicate and tempting. But even that last lace of restraint did not remain long. His deft fingers found the clasp, releasing me from the intricate prison of both fabric and expectation.

And then, his mouth. His lips, his face, buried reverently at my breasts, adoring and devout. The worship of a god who had not come to claim, but to kneel. The ache I had buried under responsibilities uncoiled like a serpent awakened, and I moaned softly, desperately trying to retain some fragile semblance of ladylike decorum. But it was of little use, my Inner Goddess was too far gone.

When it was time to rise and shift to the sanctuary of my bedroom, then I bit my lip, but this time not from restraint, but to keep from purring aloud at the memory of his recent ministrations on my throat and at my breasts. Topless, my crimson bicycle slacks clung to my hips like sin, and I sat at the edge of the bed, looking up at him with wide, sparkling eyes. I felt small, feminine, exquisite, catlike, and sinuous. The fan above me cooled my pert breasts, but his body, now bared of the shirt and radiant with heat, set me aflame anew.

Leaning over me, more kisses followed as he stood surefooted at the side of my bed. Explorations that felt like psalms of flesh, oaths of skin. I moaned again, less from urgency than from burning awe. There was time. The sun had not yet fled below the horizon, and I was delighted that sleep had not yet beckoned, heavying my weary eyelids.

His fingers, ever clever, found their way beneath the waistband of my pants. As he slid them down with practiced ease, I shimmied, offering my silent assent. Beneath them: a final barrier of sheer, intricate lingerie, kissed with black lace, my last silk veil between hunger and surrender.

To my giddy delight, the Warrior growled his approval. It was a low, pleased sound that rumbled from his barreled chest and curled around my core. 

“These,” he murmured, fingers grazing the lace at my hips, “will remain…for now.”

My Inner Goddess bit her knuckle, eyes fluttering shut in willing capitulation as his words sent a tremor of abandon skimming down her spine.

What followed was not indulgence, but solemn, enthusiastic devotion. It was a decadent, divine adoration cloaked in languorous restraint. His fingertips were feather-light and deliberate as they traced the raw outline of my thighs, mapping their curve like a sacred text. Then came the kisses not laid on my lips. They were petal-soft and whisper-warm, each one barely there, yet scorching, as his breath poured molten over the damp satin that clung to my aching apex.

Desire flamed, wild and aching, tempting me to beg for his undivided worship. But stronger still was the hunger to be beheld, to lie still and be exalted ever so slowly. So I surrendered to the moment, limbs languid, hands tucked beneath my head, sapphire curls fanned in a halo about me. I received. Entirely present, yet deliciously undone, my world narrowed to the mouth that never strayed from my skin, and the fingers that painted constellations across my skin, mapping worship into every sigh.

Time dissolved. It was an irrelevant, obsolete thing. The Warrior continued, never hurried, never demanding. He stirred my need with the precision of a holy rite, each movement a call to prayer. His lips were a benediction to my sensitive flesh. And then, at last, the final barrier was peeled away, no longer cloth, but delirium, leaving me utterly bare.

Yet I felt neither shy nor indecently exposed. No, I felt regal and sovereign in my body. My skin glowed beneath his gaze, a scandalous symphony of softening eventide, as he fully disrobed with languid movements, his garments forgotten on the maple floor, an abandoned heap of depravity. 

Anticipation bloomed fiercely within me. I inhaled, hoping to steady my maddening pulse, knowing breath might soon become an audacious luxury. Guided by an instinct carved from the legacy of his forefathers and etched deep into the marrow of his blood, the Warrior bowed his head, knowing precisely how to awaken the stars buried beneath a woman’s skin.

And then…gasp…bliss.

My pearl, already trembling, all but leapt to meet him, responding to the ghost of his breath before his mouth even touched me. And when it did, oh gods of Olympus, when it did, his tongue was vast, magnificent like a banner unfurled in brazen abandon. He lapped at me with unrepentant devotion, wide and slow at first, baptizing me in pleasure, and then narrowing, flicking, teasing, and nearly coaxing sobs from my throat and tremors from my spine.

The slate bedsheets twisted in my fists as I gasped, as moans spilled from my lips like hymns torn from my soul. Tendrils of heat burned, radiant and glorious, threading ribbons of rapture that curled my toes and spread up my belly, across my straining breasts, and burning behind my eyes. I tried, by all that is holy, I tried to memorize his movements, to mark each glorious technique that I might one day whisper them back to a goddess or perhaps employ to instruct another. But each time I grasped one, it was lost, swept away by the hurricane of my own exquisite downfall.

And still, he was not done.

With the expertise of a man both soldier and supplicant, he slid his fingers into the sanctuary he had so thoroughly anointed. He found the heart of me, that jeweled cushion where my nectar swelled, and with a master’s touch summoned a tide I could scarcely contain. Again and again, he lured me to the brink of glorious collapse, but with his face so near, I could not yet let the floodgates fall.

The restraint. Oh, the restraint it unstitched me from within, a slow, deliberate shattering.

Waves of rapture crashed through me, lifting my body from the bed not in escape, but as if my very soul sought to tear free of its mortal shell. Pain laced with pleasure, woven so intricately I could not distinguish one from the other. My cries rose in a wailing liturgy, then dropped, ragged, low, as he shifted, finding yet another holy point within the sanctuary of nerve endings he lit ablaze with lips and tongue.

He did not claim me. He exalted me.

His fingers moved with exquisite purpose, never rushed, never ruthless, yet wielded with the certainty of one well-versed in a woman’s sacred geography. And still, I held back the flood of shimmering reservoir that pounded at my trembling gates. I could not, would not drown him. Just as the last bolt holding back the tidal wave was about to give way, the Warrior, slipping his fingers from me with maddening grace, resumed his reverent laving. Each technique more ruinous than the last, first a wide, gluttonous sweep, then a flicker of divine precision, each one devised, it seemed, to unravel my very soul from its moorings.

But the worship had only begun.

He lifted my bent legs, his palms, broad and commanding, pressing against the tender backs of my thighs until my knees brushed near my shoulders, ankles resting on his unflagging shoulders. My hips arched from the bed, and a breathless mixture of alarm and elation stoked the flame in my belly. And then, oh gods, he began to adore the most forbidden temple. A place no words had ever dared name aloud, yet my body wept under the sin of his praise.

I was undone.

My skin, alight with every whisper of air, felt electric. My body floated, ethereal, beyond the cares of my mortal realm. My toes curled with holy tension. My back bowed from the mattress as though it might snap at any moment. My brow glistened, and my throat reverberated with cry after cry, pure offerings to the gods, those forgotten and ageless. My Inner Goddess soared, drunk on the sacrament of his mouth and the unapologetic divinity of his skill. Still, he moved with maddening control, ever masterful, widening and narrowing his tongue, baptizing the forbidden, adoring the sacred.

The whisper of my rare bliss flickered through the cascading waves of pleasure, elusive as a summer firefly. It hovered just out of reach, teasing me with its light. I fought the overwhelming urge to grab the back of his head, to pull him closer, and demand the spark he conjured so effortlessly, yet my body stubbornly withheld. One moment it bloomed in me, the next it slipped away, vanishing into the air. It tormented me, never staying long enough to be grasped. No movement could keep it tethered, no devotion could claim its restless dance. Blithly unaware as my screams continued to reverberate from the panes of glass about my room, he pressed on, his hands unyielding, his tongue carving a path of slow, deliberate fire.

Then, the bold Warrior slipped his glorious fingers within me once more, but not to the sanctuary already soaked and swollen with ache. No, this time he breached the unspeakable gate. A fresh gasp tore from me as shame and ecstasy twisted together like ivy and thorn. My hips betrayed me, tilting with hunger, seeking a rhythm his fingers might fulfill. His face remained buried in my swollen lips as his finger worked the forbidden, dining with shameless delight while I, gods help me, I soared into stars.

Who was I to deserve such decadence?

My logic rose like a faltering dove, pleading that it was too much, that I must stay his entrenched, wicked fingers. But no words formed. My greedy Inner Goddess had seized the reins of my being, banishing reason in favor of a profane bliss I never dared request. Concern attempted to assert itself. Surely his jaw ached from the lustful exertion. Surely his tongue begged respite to say nothing of his fingers. And yet he persisted, tireless, divine. Tears welled at the corners of my eyes as my release surged in punishing waves, each crest crashing harder than the last, crystalline relief flooding over me, melting away every trace of mortal tension.

And then, at last, he towered above me. The Warrior rose, his form magnificent, a living monument of desire and strength. Kneeling beside me, he offered himself, his splendid form a gift laid bare like a seraphic offering. His rigid glory loomed before me, thick and veined, impossibly hard, an unspoken challenge wrapped in invitation.

I blinked, my Inner Goddess trembling, eager, yielding. How could a mortal ever resist such a vision of power? My hand, almost reverent in its greed, wrapped around the length of him. The heat of his skin, the sacred rigidity of him, thrummed with feverish promise beneath my fingers, and an ache welled between my thighs. My lips parted, breath shallow, as though to taste him was to awaken a slumbering curse, old as sin and thrice as tempting.

Just as he had with me, I moved slowly, deliberately. This was no conquest, no hurried devouring. The night unfurled around us like incense smoke, and this… this was my offering. My gratitude. My ache. One hand cradled the damask weight of his royal jewels, the other guiding his silken crown to my lips, where devotion bloomed in every kiss, every sweep of tongue, every worshipful draw.

As I devoured, his fingers, unchanged in their mastery, returned to my hallowed sanctuary, sought the hidden gate of my desire, teased the trembling boundary where restraint clung, fragile and thinning. With one final coaxing touch, he unraveled me.

And I shattered.

The dam gave way, a torrent of shimmering release pouring between us, a jeweled libation surrendered to the altar of lust. His fingers stilled, gentled. And I, drunk on the ruin of pleasure, took him back into my mouth. I feasted on him, lips clinging, tongue swirling, drinking him as though he were the very ambrosia of gods.

Back and forth we moved, offering pleasure as both penance and reward. Between the veneration of his penetrating fingers, I devoured as though he were sin itself and I, a rapturous priestess, compelled to consume. His fingers thrummed at the edge of my undoing, vibrating through the core of my ruin, until I was forced to release him, spine arched, and cry my rapture to the vaulted heavens.

Bathed in my glistening release, the Warrior relinquished me, spent, panting, sprawled across the wreckage of cotton sheets. With accomplished smoothness, he sheathed himself, an ivory sword now cloaked in sacred armor. My limbs slack and spirit shimmering with afterglow, a flicker of awkwardness surfaced, but he quelled it with the ease of a man well-acquainted with dalliances. With deliberate poise, he arranged my glistening body, legs parted, hips wantonly pouring down over the bed’s edge, my torso surrendered, molten, draped across the linens like some offering to ravenous gods.

And oh, the first thrust.

Not barbaric, no, never that. But profound. The girth of him stole the air from my lungs. Deeper still, he pressed, and I cried out, not in pain alone, but in the exquisite sting of pleasure wedded to surrender. I relaxed into it, melted into it, until I no longer knew where he ended and I began.

And then, then came the rhythm.

Not gentle. Not soft. But exquisitely deliberate.

Each thrust was a ribbon of molten dark chocolate coiling around my core, binding me in silken possession. My Inner Goddess wept for the sheer beauty of it, my body splintering anew beneath the unyielding glory of his worship.

Adjusting higher upon the bed, the Warrior and I found again the sacred cadence, the unspoken rhythm born of breath and hunger alive since the dawn of time. Beneath him, once more I trembled, struggling to bridle the wildfire within, to tame both the aching thrust of my mortal flesh and the greedy divinity stirring behind my ribs.

“Ride me,” he murmured, his voice rich and low, like dark Germanic kaffee poured over burning cedar and winter spice.

Clumsily, hurriedly, I folded the soaked fleece beneath us, desperate to shield his noble form from my cooling lake, the remnants of his own fierce ministrations. My hands were unsteady. I ached to pounce upon him and mount him, to crown him with my lust, as he lay sprawled across the slate-gray sheets, crinkled, damp, and seeped in the memory of my writhing form.

With reverence, I guided his illustrious phallus, sliding it languidly through the glistening nectar of my swollen slit, my fingers trembling with the heady combination of anticipation and awe. Only then, when my body could wait no longer, did I lower myself, inch by exquisite inch, onto his god-sent length… and allow myself, finally, to sheath him completely.

I began slowly, testing the depth, the stretch, the greedy ache of my still-hungry body around the hardness now buried within. And oh—I found it good. Not merely good. Exquisite, as my body stretched to accommodate his girth. A ragged gasp escaped me, head thrown back, as desperate, unrighteous pleasure clawed its way up my spine, tearing through me in a cry I could not, did not want to hold back.

His hands rested with devastating ease upon my thighs, and I found my rhythm. That primal, feral, insatiable hunger unfurled from the ancient depths of the earth itself, from the very soil that had given rise to my existence. My palms pressed to his chest, feeling the broad, celestial swell of his pectorals for balance, eyes closed as I sought to intensify the rhythm I craved. I found it in the molten rise of his crown, in the white-knuckled grip I took upon the midnight headboard. I found it in every blinding roll of my hips, ignoring the burn in my thighs, the cramp seizing my very soul, I found it. And I saw it reflected in the Warrior’s eyes as he began to groan, his body growing rigid beneath mine, the slamming cacophony of our joining burgeoning into something hypnotic.

In a rare moment of lucidity, I stole a glance at him mid-thrust, some fragile splinter of my rational mind pleading for assurance that he, too, was adrift in this storm, that I was not cruelly taking more than he would give. But there it was, etched in his jawline, in the gasp of his breath, mirroring mine. The mystic tune had taken root in him as surely as it had overtaken me.

And still, I rode, hips thrusting, aching, unrelenting. Even I was astonished by the fierce tempo, the relentless endurance of my movements, as though I had been touched by Aphrodite herself, compelled to dance until the very stars tumbled from the heavens.

And then I felt it, that unmistakable magic, that masculine thread of glory that joins two people in the throes of rapture. It shimmered behind my closed eyes like a gossamer veil, nearly visible to my spirit, swelling with color and tension.

I dared not move too sharply, nor alter my ravishing rhythm. To preserve the fragile pulse, I attempted to relax my inner muscles, nurturing the rhythm being summoned from the insistent pistoning of my hips. My body was no longer my own; every nerve within me was finely attuned not to my own climax, but to preserving the tempo that had summoned this spectral wonder into being.

Then, with a sudden, breathless shift, the Warrior gripped my hips, taking command of our rhythm. His own hips rose to meet mine, each thrust growing more deliberate, more knowing, more unyielding. The phantom’s presence, that unspoken force, began to materialize in the air around us as his fingers tightened their grip on my waist. I scarcely dared to breathe, caught between the exquisite thrill of surrender and the promise of something far more feral.

But there was no need for fear.

With just a few brutal strokes later, perfect, primal, our cries tore from us, unrestrained and fierce. Our bodies shattered in violent synchrony, a storm of light and sound crashing over us, the music rising to a thunderous crescendo. Flesh colliding with flesh, raw and animalistic eruption. Every tremor, every wild pulse, magnified in that final, searing moment.

…and then absolute silence.

Glazed eyes pierced the heavens. My chest heaved, breath jagged and erratic, thighs aflame with a ferocious, unholy fire. And I craved it. Even as my knees buckled and my lungs fought for air, my Inner Goddess was drenched in the rapture of Olympus. She danced in delirious, unholy delight, triumphant beyond mortal measure, glorious in the ache of domination and surrender. 

Flushed and breathless, I collapsed beside the recovering Warrior, my lips curled in a dazed, satisfied grin, like some intoxicated fool. He remained unwavering, still attuned to the rhythm that had carried us both through ruin and resurrection, his fingers lingering on my trembling skin as he reclined with effortless ease. We lay together in the languid afterglow, the soft hum of the setting spring sun bathing us in a final, golden haze.

I inhaled happiness. Pure and heady, it seeped into every pore, making a home in my bones. It was a glorious feeling, amber, and honey-slow.

Rolling to my stomach, I propped my chin on my fist, my elbow sinking deep into the plush mattress, my body languid and content. My free hand wandered lazily over the broad, sculpted expanse of his chest, tracing idle, unhurried patterns on his skin as if savoring every inch. Our words flowed easily, light and languid, laced with quiet laughter and reflective pauses, each sentence a thread weaving us closer to the improbable, exquisite intersection of our lives. Life and fate, we agreed, were curious things, meant not to be controlled, but surrendered to, with gratitude and an open heart. If one offered love and kindness freely, perhaps such moments need not be so rare.

But all hourglasses run dry. Eventually, the soft, almost imperceptible sift of sand told us our time had drawn to its close.

We rose. Dressed slowly, dreamily. He followed me to the living room, and with a smile, a lingering hug, and a kiss that made my cheeks bloom, I bid farewell to the mighty Warrior.

High in the heavens, the Moon Goddess held court, her reign casting a silver glow over the world below. With fresh sheets awaiting me upon my bed and the candlelight flickering softly in the room, I sank into a bath of opulent bubbles. The hot water enveloped my limbs, coaxing the last delicious tremors from my muscles, like an intimate, lingering touch. The golden amber of my old-fashioned slid down my throat, a sinful secret, smooth and heavy. I sank deeper into the fragrant warmth of the water, my body surrendering to the heat, a soft sigh escaping me as the final weight of the day melted away.

A sultry smile curved on my lips as I lifted the glass, its highland elixir burning as it traced a slow, tantalizing path down my throat. I savored the smooth richness of the bourbon, letting its complex layers unfurl, aromatic bitters mingling with a twist of citrus. The bubbles on my skin glistened erotically in the candlelight, each droplet a lingering reminder of the evening’s indulgence as they slowly traced paths down my body. With the weight of my classes nearly behind me, the thought of future rendezvous, the gentlemen I might entertain, sent a thrill through me, my pulse quickening as my fingers lightly brushed my submerged pearl.

My Inner Goddess stirred restlessly, eager for the fantasies yet to unfold. I let my mind drift to the pleasures yet to be fulfilled. A quiet groan of longing escaped me as I sank deeper into the seductive water, every inch of my body alive with a mounting hunger. This was going to be a magnificent year. Despite the heat of my bath, I shivered at the thought of all the desires I might embrace. Time slowed, suspended in the promise of what was to come, and I sipped once more, resting my head against the curve of the tub as my mind drifted into delicious reverie.

Until next time. XO, Elsie