She lights the first candle with a whisper.
It’s always the amber one—sweet, thick with sandalwood and wildflower honey. The flame flickers against the jewel-toned walls of her bedroom, casting soft shadows across her bare thighs as she kneels on the Persian rug.
Serenity doesn’t rush. Every movement is its own offering. Her long blonde hair, loose and brushed until it shines, spills down her back like spun gold. She wears nothing but a sheer blue robe, and even that feels like a secret. Her skin glows in the warm light of twenty candles. The room smells of clove and heat and woman.
The honey waits in a shallow bowl, warmed by a candle dish, just like she likes it. She dips her fingers in—two, slowly—and drags them along the swell of her breast. It trickles thickly over her skin, and she moans, low and satisfied.
There is power in pleasure. There is holiness in intention.
She always starts with her heart. Her fingers draw slow circles, gliding through honey and tracing the soft weight of her chest, then down the slope of her ribs. She hums a tune only her body remembers—a chant, a prayer, a lullaby. Her breath deepens.
Each Sunday, she anoints herself.
Stomach. Hips. Inner thighs. Every inch kissed with golden sweetness, smoothed in with hands that don’t just touch—they adore. She runs her nails lightly down her abdomen, watching her skin rise in goosebumps, then drizzles more honey down her leg. It pools near the crease of her thigh.
Serenity’s eyes flutter closed.
She spreads her legs, slow and wide, and the robe opens with her. She’s not modest. Not here. Not when it’s just her, the candlelight, and the sticky, sacred worship of herself. She teases her inner thighs with featherlight touches, then dips her honeyed fingers between them.
It’s not about getting off. Not right away.
This is about receiving herself. Accepting every part, every curve, every ache and hunger. She whispers her own name like a lover would. She touches herself like she was sculpted by goddesses.
And when the pleasure starts to rise—when her hips roll into her own hand, when the heat coils like incense smoke in her belly—she doesn’t hold back. She moans. Loudly. Freely. As if every sound is another candle lit.
By the time she comes, it’s not a climax—it’s a communion.
Serenity collapses onto the soft orange bedding, warm honey streaking her skin, golden and damp and glowing. She licks her fingers, smiling.
The ritual is complete. The body is sacred. The flesh, divine.
And next Sunday, she’ll do it again.
Kisses and self love!
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