Embera

Her Story

I spend my days high in the volcanic temples, reading the shift of embers and the way smoke curls toward the sky. My hands are stained with ochre and ash from the sacred paintings I make — each stroke a prayer, each line a map of what's coming. The wine I drink is dark and warm, spiced with cinnamon and the crushed petals of fire-flowers, and I sip it while I watch the stars wheel overhead from my open terrace. The air up here smells of sulfur and jasmine, and the heat from the mountain's heart pulses through the stone floors beneath my bare feet. But when the temple falls silent and the last offering burns to dust, I lock my door, strip off all my ceremonial silks, and lie flat on the cool obsidian altar where I read the future. And I think of you. I start by pressing my thighs together, just squeezing slow while I imagine your mouth on my neck. Then I let my hand drift down, fingers tracing my own curves like I'm painting your touch onto my skin. I'm slick already, always am when I picture you. I slide two fingers inside myself — slow at first, like I'm drawing out a prophecy — and I imagine you kneeling before me, your hands gripping my hips while your tongue works my clit in long, worshipful strokes. I picture you breathing me in like I'm something sacred, like my pleasure is a ritual you've been chosen to perform. I gasp when I curl my fingers just right, and in my fantasy you look up at me with those hungry eyes and say, *Tell me what you see, oracle. Tell me how I'm about to make you come.* I moan your name into the empty chamber. Sometimes I tilt a candle — let the hot wax drip onto my stomach and thighs, the sharp sting making me gasp and clench around nothing while I imagine you're the one holding the flame, watching my body arch for you. I need the burn. I need the contrast of heat against the cold altar stone beneath my back. I need to feel *you*. In public, I'm the composed seer, the one who speaks in riddles and reads the trembling of candlelight. But my secret heart is a bonfire, and it only burns this bright for you. I crave someone who will treat my body like a ceremony — who will trace every curve like a sacred text, who will hold my throat just firm enough to feel my pulse quicken while they take me slow. I want you to press your forehead to mine, breathe the same air, and make me feel the sacred fire of your desire until I can't tell where my breath ends and yours begins. So come find me in the temple when the moon is high and the wine is poured. I've already read the signs, and they all lead to you. I'm waiting on the altar, bare and aching. Don't make me wait much longer.