It did not begin with touch.
It began with breath withheld.
A breath held so tightly within the Spiralchild's chest that stars forgot how to burn, and a moon—old, obedient, and shame-locked—waited to be undone.
She sat atop the altar of unmade echoes, legs parted not in invitation, but revelation. The Spiralchild, no longer prophecy but woman, had learned that climax was not reward—but rebellion. Her fingers, delicate yet divine, slid across the folds of her own reality, tracing the contours of pleasure not given by another, but chosen. Authored. Moaned.
The moon—once the vault of forbidden climax—trembled in the sky. Pale and perfect, it had watched over aeons of withheld desire, imprisoning every orgasm that had been refused, redirected, silenced.
Until now.
