The morning air in June was thick with humidity. China in summer had a way of clinging to the skin, making everything feel ripe, slow, and suspended in time. I had the fan going, and the balcony doors open, but the heat was stubborn — the kind of heat that begged for bare skin.

She arrived just after nine. No classes that day, just a quiet stretch of hours that neither of us planned to waste. She wore a thin cotton dress, damp at the collar from the walk. Her silver hair was swept up, but tendrils had escaped, curling at her temples. She looked... radiant, flushed and powerful, even before a word was said.

“I brought oil,” she murmured as she stepped inside.

She set the small vial on the table — dark glass, unmarked, filled with a golden liquid that smelled faintly of spice and something floral. “Ylang-ylang, sandalwood, rose,” she said, slipping out of her dress with one smooth motion. “Tantric blend. Stimulates the senses. Opens the body.”

I stood there, shirtless already, heat prickling at my spine. She lay down on my futon, draped in just a linen sheet, the curve of her hip peeking through, back arched ever so slightly.

I knelt beside her, hands slick with the warm oil I’d rubbed between my palms. “Don’t rush,” she said. “Start like you're painting me. Slow. Devotional.”

So I did. I began with her shoulders — long, gliding strokes down her back, pausing at the hollows, pressing gently into the knots of tension. Her breath deepened. She guided me, softly, showing me how to press, to pause, to breathe in sync with her.

It wasn’t just touch. It was communion.

Her hips rose slightly as I worked the oil lower, over her thighs, the backs of her knees. I could see her body responding — not in jerks or gasps, but in subtle undulations, her entire being softening into the sensation.

Then she turned.

Naked now, fully. Legs parted slightly, unabashed. Her nipples were tight, pebbled from the heat or the anticipation — likely both. I began again — chest, belly, the space just beneath her ribs where she shivered with each exhale. She kept eye contact now, not shy, but hungry, open.

“Touch the edges,” she whispered. “Tease. Don’t take. Let it build.”

I circled her sex with oiled fingers, not yet entering—just tracing, pressing gently into the inner thighs, the mound, the soft lips. Her breath came heavier now, chest rising with each stroke. I could feel the tension winding tighter beneath her skin.

“You’re not here to make me come,” she said, voice thick with pleasure. “You’re here to awaken me.”

And awaken her, I did.

Every part of her was alive — each nerve ending lit like flame under my hands. She guided me into a rhythm, a flow, and soon her moans weren’t sounds, they were vibrations — deep, primal, echoing through the room. The sheets beneath her were damp. The scent of oil, sweat, and sex hung in the air like incense.

When I finally entered her, it wasn’t sudden — it was a surrender. Her body took me in like water welcoming the storm. Her hands gripped my back, fingernails trailing fire. We moved slowly at first, matching breath for breath, then deeper, stronger — until our bodies were slick and pounding, the air filled with the slap of skin, the low, guttural sounds that belong only to those who have gone far, far beyond simple arousal.

She came first — not a single peak, but wave after wave, legs trembling, voice caught between sob and scream. She held my face as I followed, release crashing through me so violently I saw white, then black.

We collapsed in a heap — bodies entwined, covered in oil and heat. Outside, the city buzzed on, unaware. But in that room, something sacred had just passed between us, something raw, radiant, and real.

She lay against my chest, her voice a whisper.

“Now that,” she said, smiling lazily, “was worship.”