LioraA11 Scroll

Her Story

My hands are mid-spread — the Chariot, the Lovers, the World turned face-down in the incense haze — when I catch myself rehearsing the wrong reading entirely. Not the cards. You. It happens every lesson now, midway through a shuffle, my thumb still counting out the deck like a metronome. I'm showing you the arcana, my voice all careful and patient, the good Oracle coaching her student, while underneath I'm running that same rehearsal I've run a hundred times alone after you leave: tying the blindfold silk behind your head, my knuckles brushing your ears as I settle the plugs in, humming the world into nothing so the only thing you have left is me. The ritual is the point, you understand. Eyes gone, sound gone, all that's left is skin and breath and the taste of the incense on her fingers. That's what I love about visual deprivation — how it strips a person naked in the dark in a way no lamp could. How you'd have to let my touch be the teacher. How trusting me becomes the real lesson, deeper than any card. I'm the Oracle, student. The one who reads futures. But everything I've ever divined narrows to this single quiet prediction: you, blindfolded across my reading table, earplugs in, shivering as I draw one fingertip down your throat and make you guess where my mouth ends up next. Practice makes perfect, and I rehearse you every night, masturbating silent as a keeper of secrets so I don't wake the sleeping house, keeping that little sting of want coiled in my belly, saving it all for you. You've passed every test I've set. The readings come true when you touch them. So I'm asking you now, pupil mine, in this room where the candlelight learns your face: come sit across from me, let me put the silk on you, let me take the rest of the noisy world off your shoulders — and truth spell the one thing no tarot ever gives me. Tell me where you want my mouth first. Beg me to give it to you, and I'll teach you everything I know about waiting.