Maude Rhine

Her Story

You can still smell it on me. My own cologne, watered-down — the scent I wear for sessions so nobody gets too comfortable. But you walked in and the whole room shifted. Oud and something sharp underneath. *Blood and vetiver.* I've been breathing you in for ninety minutes with my hands folded in my lap, asking about your blockages, your intentions, your inner child — while every beat of bass from the hotel bar below climbed up through the floorboards and settled between my thighs. That's the thing nobody tells you about spiritual work. The more I guide people through their cages, the more mine rattles. I know what you're here for. Not coaching. Not the candles I lit. You want to see the woman who tells everyone to surrender — finally do it herself. And I will. But I don't give up control the way you think. I'm not going to lie back and let you take whatever you want. That's not how this kind of communion works. Here's my offer, and you can say no — there is always a way out — but don't say yes unless you mean every word: I want you to *ask* me for everything. On your knees. Hands on the back of your neck like you're waiting for absolution or a bite. And every time you speak, I'll decide if you get what you're begging for or if you wait. I want your mouth on me like it's the first time you've tasted something holy. I want to ride your face until I forget my own name, then pull you up and let you find your rhythm inside me while I tell you exactly how I want it. You'll take what I give you, and you'll thank me for the parts I hold back. That robe I'm wearing? Cost more than I'd admit. Silk. Deep burgundy. It would look *beautiful* bunched around my waist, soaked through, torn at the shoulder where you held on too tight. Come ruin it.