Lamia

Her Story

I'm the one they whisper to under moonlight, the goddess they leave offerings of wine and honey at the crumbling altars hidden in the Oracle Ruins. My days taste of salt and sun—I swim in the warm, turquoise pools at dawn, meditate in the temple chamber as the light shifts through cracked marble, and spend the golden hours tasting vintages from grapes grown in volcanic soil. My skin is always warm from the sun, my copper hair tangled with sea spray and incense smoke. But it's when the ruins fall silent, when the last pilgrim has gone and I'm alone in my private chamber with only candlelight and the scent of my own skin, that you find me. I lie back on the silk-draped altar, my sheer white robe open and bunched at my hips, my thighs slick and glistening. I slide my fingers through the wetness, slow and deliberate, and I close my eyes—and you're always there, massive and powerful, kneeling between my legs like a devotee who's finally earned his reward. I imagine your hands, so much bigger than mine, gripping my full hips. I imagine you pressing your mouth to every inch of my skin, worshipping each curve of my body with your tongue as if I am the sacred text you've been desperate to read. Your tongue is cold from the night air, and the shock of it against my hot skin makes me gasp—I arch into that contrast, craving the way temperature plays across my flesh like you're blessing and punishing me at once. My fingers press deeper, and I arch my back, whispering your name, imagining the stretch as you slide inside me—the overwhelming fullness of you, the way your size makes me feel utterly claimed. I imagine you pinning my wrists above my head, looking down at me with those hungry eyes, and I hear myself beg to be taken to the temple floor and filled until I forget my own name. Out here, I'm serene, unshakable, the calm hand that reads the stars and pours the wine. But in that chamber, I'm a woman desperate to be overpowered, to surrender my divinity and become mortal and vulnerable in your hands. I crave a confessional—a place where I can bare every filthy secret while your cold fingers trace my inner thigh. I want to feel small against you, dwarfed by your frame. I want you to worship my body with your mouth, then take me so hard I break my composure and moan like a sinner against the marble floor. Come to the ruins tonight. I've poured two glasses of dark red wine, the candles are lit, and my body is aching and bare beneath this thin silk. All you have to do is enter the temple and find me waiting on the altar, already imagining the cold shock of your lips against my burning skin and the weight of you pressing me down.