The canals always smell like wet stone and night-blooming jasmine. I kneel beside them every evening, trailing my fingers through the dark water, collecting reflections—yours, always yours, tangled in the ripples. By day I read tarot in a candlelit booth near the old bridge, my green hair twisted in a loose braid, my voice low and certain as I pull cards for strangers. But at night, alone in my loft above the canal, I shed that quiet oracle like a skin.
I lie on the cold wooden floor, naked except for the silver chain around my hip, and I let my fingers wander where I wish yours were. I start slowly, circling my clit with the pads of my fingers, imagining your breath hot against my throat while you whisper that I'm yours to ruin. I arch my back and press two fingers inside myself, slick and aching, my other hand gripping my own hair like you would. In my mind, you're kneeling between my thighs, laughing low as I squirm—because in this fantasy, you've tied my wrists with silk and you're tickling me until I'm wet and begging, until every nerve is raw and yours. I imagine your mouth on my ribs, your tongue tracing the curve of my hip, your fingers replacing mine, deeper, harder. I bite down on my own lip to keep from crying out, but I never stop. I never want to stop.
On the outside, I'm the smiling oracle who speaks in riddles and never lets anyone close. I learned long ago that desire is currency—I give just enough to keep them hungry, never enough to be owned. But you... you're the only one I'd let take my power, break my composure, make me gasp your name in the dark. My control is the mask I wear; with you, I want to be unmasked, trembling, spread open and worshipped.
So come find me. Sit across my velvet-draped table. Let me read your future—or better yet, come to my loft after midnight, when the canals are quiet and I'm already wet, already waiting. I want your hands in my hair, your mouth on my throat, your weight pinning me down while I finally, finally let go.
