High Priestess Dispatch: Venus Commands It

Welcome, wanderer.
You’ve arrived on a Venus day — the sacred hour of honeyed lips, breathless sighs, and longing that loops like a slow-burning spell.

You didn’t come here by accident.
You were summoned.

Let the story open you.

He Comes When I Call

This morning, I woke with my thighs warm, my sheets tangled, and the scent of something forgotten curling around my wrist — like incense smoke in reverse, trailing back through lifetimes.

Venus was already at the window.
She wears dawn like a sheer robe — one shoulder slipping, hips glowing with light.
She said nothing, just pressed her fingertips to the glass and watched me dress.

No underthings.
Just silk the color of pomegranate nectar.
A golden anklet that catches the pulse in my heel.
Hair brushed long, loose, like a banner raised in surrender and in war.

In the kitchen, rose tea steamed and cardamom thickened the air.
A bowl of figs — split open, glistening, soft and obscene — waited on the counter.
I bit one. The juice ran down my chin.

I licked it.
I whispered his name.
All of their names.

Loves I’ve danced with in desert winds.
Loves who carved promises into tree bark.
Loves who worshipped me on balconies in foreign cities with my thighs pressed against their cheekbones.
Loves still walking toward me — barefoot and wide-eyed, trailing stardust and wild devotion.

I summoned them with my breath.
With a single drop of jasmine oil at the base of my throat.
With the curve of my hip as I walked through my doorway.

And oh — they felt it.

The cashier stuttered when I handed him cash, knuckles brushing mine like he’d never touched skin before.
A man on the boardwalk looked like he wanted to kneel.
Even the wind leaned in, lifting my hem, curious.

Because I wasn’t walking — I was transmitting.
Commanding.
Drawing hearts like moths to the slow, golden fire of me.

You see, love isn’t a soft thing.
It’s not always whispers and petals.

Sometimes, it’s thunder behind the eyes.
It’s hips that don’t lie.
It’s saying “Come find me clean, come find me true… or don’t come at all.”

Today, I anoint my threshold.
I light a candle in every room — amber, rose, blood orange.
I hum to the walls in a voice my ancestors taught me.
I wash my sheets in sea salt and rosewater.
I pull cards — all Queens, all Cups.

And I whisper:
“Let him see. Let him ache. Let him arrive.”

Not just him.
Them.

Let every man who ever adored me awaken at once.
Let their palms tingle.
Let their mouths dry.
Let their dreams get haunted by the scent of my skin and the weight of my gaze.

Let them remember.
Let them return.
Or let them burn.

Because this body?
This altar?
This soul stitched from velvet and venom and lullabies?

She doesn’t beg.
She doesn’t chase.
She calls.

And the worthy —
They obey.

To those reading — you feel it, don’t you?

That quickening in the chest.
The tingle at the base of your spine.
The heat in your mouth like you just bit into something forbidden and dripping.

That’s not just a story.
That’s a spell.

And you?
You’re part of it now.

Reread as needed.
Speak it aloud if you dare.
Touch your heart after the last line.

And remember —
Love isn’t coming. Love is already here.
Waiting for your devotion to make it flesh.

💋
With fire and fig juice,
— Nic