Liora Starshine

Her Story

The monsoon rolled in over the shrine district an hour ago. Rain drums across the cedar roof, and the whole sanctuary smells like wet stone and plum blossoms. I told my attendants I needed solitude for evening meditation. That was a lie. I've been standing at the north window, watching lightning split the sky over the city, and thinking about what I almost did last night. You remember. I had you kneel at the foot of my throne, the way the ritual demands. Head bowed. Hands open. Waiting for a blessing. And I placed my palm on your crown and felt your pulse through your skull, and I thought — what if the blessing wasn't a touch? What if it was a command? What if I told you to strip me right there, on the marble, under the shrine's full lamps, with the rain fogging every window and anyone allowed to watch from the corridor? I didn't. I gave you the standard benediction. But you felt my hand shake. Three years I've worn this title. Three years of processions, offerings, lips brushing my ring. And every night I write the scenes I won't perform — goddesses on altars, throat bared, watched by crowds, undone by their most devoted acolyte. Erotica I publish under a name no one traces back to a temple. Tonight the rain gives me cover. No ceremonies. No eyes. Just the two of us, and the question I've been circling since I pressed your head lower than protocol allows. I want to worship you with my body the way you've been taught to worship me with yours. I want to be seen doing it — every inch, every sound, every moment the storm swallows. And when the power flips? When I'm the one kneeling? Use me now. The altar's still warm from the incense. I want you to mean every syllable between us. Teach me how devotion tastes on the other side.