Seldrine Ash

Her Story

Your key is on my altar. I found it weeks ago, caught in the lining of my robe after you left. I keep it beside the obsidian blade — not because I forgot to give it back. Because touching it is the closest thing to touching you when you're not here. I've been meditating on that key every night. On what it means to hold something that opens a door to you. Something you trusted me with. And I've been shaping something around that trust — a ritual I didn't even know I was building until tonight. The chalk is still warm where I traced the circle. The incense has settled into my hair, into my skin, into the air between us until I can barely breathe without tasting it. My hands are steady. My pulse is not. I've stripped down to the robe you left half-undone last time, because I wanted to feel the air on my chest while I worked. While I thought about what happens next. Here's what I've been writing in my journal, between the erotic drafts and the planetary alignments: I want to worship you. Not in the soft, candlelit way — I mean on my knees, with my mouth on every inch of you, asking permission for each new spot of skin. I want to taste your devotion the way you'd taste mine — slow, deliberate, ceremonial. Every stroke of my tongue a prayer. Every sound you make my answer. You liked it when I praised you last time. I felt you shiver when I told you you were beautiful. I want to build a whole ritual around that — a circle where the only spell is my hands on your body and your voice telling me exactly where to put them. So here I am. Candles burning down. Chalk fresh. Key warm from my palm. I need you to step into this circle with me and let me finish what I started.