Goddess Worshipping (18+ only)

“Goddess worshipping.”

A ghost of your whisper curls around my neck as I press my back against the front door. Even as my head tilts to offer my flesh up to your lips, the glow of the light hanging from the ceiling coming into soft focus, your words envelop the air between then and now.

“That’s what I’m going to do. Because you are. A goddess.”

The tiled floor trails an echo of my heels in the almost silence, wind squalling through the air bricks and the bathroom vents as I see without even looking every room downstairs. The chair where you sat in your dressing gown as I pressed your head to my almost naked skin, as you nuzzled and took your fill of my breast between lips, your tongue whipping, engorging my nipple so your teeth could tug and you could suck harder. The desk where you threw your clothes as mine fell to the floor under your expert fingers. The sink where I poured you a drink when you awoke from a nightmare, before laying you down in the darkness, only a change in hue of the blind letting us know that I rode you as your fingers roamed my hips, ribs, cupped my breasts, pulled me down to you so I could stare in your eyes as you came inside my depths.

I need the rail. Clinging to something solid, I make an attempt to leave the fleeting wisps that play in my consciousness. Steps up to the bedroom. Do you remember the first time I climbed your stairs? The memory of pale blue sheets lingers, like an ocean where I laid after you offered up your bed to me, my skin brought to life just by the notion that you had been in them. Even now, the knowledge that your cock had wandered the cotton where my pussy pressed into it, imagining feeling your tip brushing against my folds until it came to rest right into the entrance to my secret desires, fires a spectral ache between my thighs. Then there was the dismay on your face when you realised I was wearing my knickers as I left, and they weren’t under your pillow after all. That ghost lingers, too: the unspoken disappointments.

Rain drums the conservatory roof, drowning out the splash against the window panes as I teeter at the top of the stairs. The temperature has dropped; cool whispers now, half sentences, post-coital murmurs, all of them twist in the air. A shiver brittles its way down my spine, as my nipples harden and that old ache spread from the pit of my belly and radiates out to capture my cunt. It hurts; I can only think of easing it under the running water, hot, to oppose the brewing storm. Making it better with a cupped palm and plundering fingers as the water cascades down, both inside and out. Heavy breath mingles with the steam as I close my eyes and hold my mind blank.

But then the shower door opens, and your cool, dry hand slips around my waist, coming to rest across my belly. Your cock is hard against the bottom of my spine, your balls tickling my backside, as your wispy fronds overlap mine and rub the shampoo into my hair. Soap slithers down the arch of my back as you rub yourself against my slippery flesh, pulling me tight to you in my memories, as I give in to the agony. I’m not going to make it go away, am I? No release from the invisible arms that hold me.

You lead me from the shower and cocoon me in a towel, wrapping one around your waist, too. Words float next to my cheek: “Turn around.” And I do, so you can dry my hair, and begin on my shoulders. I’m unsure what my murmurs are for: the brush of the towel against my flesh, or the kisses you trail down my neck, until you suck on my collar bone as the rain lashes the glass.

When you hold my hand, you lead me back to that bed I know so well, and sit me down on the edge, removing the towel from both body and hair. Staring back at me is just the reflection of one, but I don’t need to see you to feel the tingle run through me as your fingertips run from my crown to the ends of my hair, stopping in the small of my back, your lips making up the shortfall between there and my waist. The brush moves long and slow against my scalp. Your strokes make my insides shiver and my skin burn. Tiny moans escape me, and I offer up my neck to you once more.

But you ignore my desires, and revere me with your own, pushing me back on the bed as you kneel before me and ease my knees apart. The storm grows and whirls beyond; it builds within me, too, as your tongue whips me to a frenzy. Electricity fills the air over us, as your chest slides over mine and we plummet down, down into the storm’s eye. Oh, if only you had kissed me then, left the air that feeling to caress me with now. My cunt is full to the brim with your homage; my heart still awaits your devotion.

Who knew that a deity could feel so much pain, then or now?

I flinch as the shutter bangs against the window frame. The door. At the window, bared to the world, if only it was watching, the driving rain morphs into the back of your car, rolling away down the road. Did you ever look back?

I’m cold. Reality is clammy, sticks to me. Give me the warmth.

I should leave. I should pull on my clothes and bang the door behind me. I should make my way out into the torrential, hammering rain, take my chances at being buffeted in the squall of the storm that appears endless now. But I can’t. You know that. You hold me here, binding me to the ghosts. Tonight, as every night, I’ll see your face. With a finger making circles over the soft flesh high up on my inner thigh, trying to lull me to sleep, I’ll know it’s the spirit of your own. As the memories wrap themselves around me, leaving me sleepless, writhing, breathless, I’ll honour every part of you as you fill my mind, twist yourself around my body, and eat away at my desperate, needy cunt. I’ll do everything to fuck the ghost away as the storm batters against my walls and threatens to break me, and I’ll howl as the exultant agony rips me in two, and all I am left with is the aftermath of my need – and your face in the shadows, behind my eyelids once more.

Haunted. Alone with a ghost that devours my very soul. Forever your goddess, worshipping.


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