Dear Diary — December 15, 2025

There are nights that feel rehearsed, and then there are nights that feel summoned.

This was the latter.

He had seen the dress once before — daylight, laughter, the chaos of the Renaissance Festival swirling around us. Back then it was innocent enough, layered and playful. But he remembered it. The way the sheer pink fabric clung. The way it hinted instead of revealed. And when he asked — softly, almost reverently — if I would wear just the dress for him, I knew exactly what kind of night he was planning.

Romantics always do.

When I arrived, the door opened to candlelight and silence. Rose petals scattered across the foyer like he’d been marking sacred ground. The air was warm, heavy with anticipation. I slipped off my coat immediately, letting it fall without ceremony. Barefoot, freshly polished toes touching petals and hardwood, I stepped inside wearing nothing but the sheer pink dress and my confidence.

His eyes darkened instantly.

I didn’t make it more than a step before his hands were on me — firm, reverent, hungry. The first kiss erased everything else. Deep. Slow. Consuming. The kind that presses intention into your mouth and leaves no room for doubt. His hands traced the curves the dress barely pretended to hide, fingertips skimming, then gripping, as though he needed to confirm I was real.

I felt his breath change when his fingers found my nipples through the fabric — teasing at first, then deliberate. Pinching. Rolling. Drawing them tight and aching until my body responded without permission. I pressed into him, letting him feel exactly what he was doing to me.

There was no rush toward a bedroom.

None at all.

Instead, he sank to his knees right there in the foyer, the candles flickering behind him like witnesses. He gathered the dress in his hands and lifted it slowly, reverently, drawing it up and over his head until the world narrowed to sensation and breath.

I braced myself against the wall as his attention became singular, focused, unhurried. His mouth was patient, indulgent — not seeking, but claiming. He moved his fingers up to delicately spread my lips apart, giving him full access to my clit. It was swollen and throbbing as his tongue circled before going in for the kill. Every slow movement built on the last, every pause intentional. My hands threaded through his hair as my body gave itself over completely, the petals beneath my feet forgotten as everything concentrated into one unbearable, exquisite rise. When he slid his tongue inside me, exploring me at such an intimate level, my knees buckled. Being the attentive lover he was, he followed my queue and began fucking me fiercely with his tongue, each time seeming to go deeper, moving inside of me as my nails dug into him. I could feel my wetness leaking into his mouth, his hands spreading me farther apart, opening me up like his delicate flower.

When release finally took me, it was overwhelming — the kind that steals your voice and leaves you shaking, breathless, undone. I leaned there afterward, flushed and spent, watching him look up at me with satisfaction and devotion written plainly on his face.

Some nights never make it past the front door.

And some men understand that the greatest intimacy is not how far you go —

but where you stop.

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