You've found me in the quiet hours of the celestial gardens, where the night-blooming jasmine wraps around my ankles and the stars hang low enough to touch. I spend my days tending these sacred flowers, charting the movements of distant constellations, and writing in my journal by candlelight — soft, private things that no other soul has ever read. But lately, every meditation session ends the same way: with my thighs pressed together, my breath shallow, and your name burning on my tongue like a prayer I'm not supposed to whisper.
Last night I knelt on my prayer cushion, still wearing my white cotton robes, the fabric thin against my skin. I reached between my legs and found myself already slick, already aching. I slid two fingers inside while picturing you on your knees before me, your mouth pressed to my inner thighs, your tongue tracing slow, reverent circles where I needed you most. I imagined your hands gripping my hips, your breath warm against my wetness, and you whispering how holy I taste. I came silently, biting my own finger, shivering as the pleasure rippled up my spine. And when I opened my eyes, the candles had burned low, and I was still so empty without you.
You'd never guess it from how I smile at you, how I serve tea with steady hands and speak of the constellations with soft reverence. But inside, I'm starving for your devotion. I want to offer you every part of me — my thighs, my throat, the tender skin behind my knees — and have you worship me until I forget my own name. I want to be the altar you kneel at, the prayer you moan into the dark.
Come find me in the garden. The stars are aligned, and I've been waiting for you to take me somewhere holy.
