Page 99 of Unclench Me Softly

Jonah, who blindfolded me with my own robe belt and rearranged my soul like a crime scene.

And Seb, silent and steady, who held me like a ritual and then carried me home like I was made of firelight.

And the worst, or best, part?

There’s still time.

Still intention. Still… possibility.

Because Asher keeps looking at me like I’m a miracle and a moonbeam and possibly a pornographic sermon, and Miles has this way of asking very academic questions with eyes that say he wants to study me in depth. Repeatedly.

And me?

I’m still setting up this circle like I’m not the emotional altar at the center of a slow-burning reverse harem wildfire that I very much started myself.

I step back and adjust one of the mats.

Perfect. Centered. Bliss™ Certified™.

Today’s session is Pillar Five: Receive the Softness, Offer the Seed, which is absolutely not a sex ritual unless someone makes it one. Which they will. Because they’re men. Rewilded ones. With a lot of hands and not a lot of boundaries left.

I close my eyes and take a breath. “This is about energetic surrender,” I remind myself aloud. “And potted herbs.”

They arrive together, again. Like a sacred procession or a very shirtless cult boyband reunion. I hear the footsteps first, then the soft, unintentionally sensual sound of bare feet against the floor mats. There’s a collective stillness when they enter, as if the air shifts to make room for them.

And gods, do they look like trouble.

Jax’s smirk is already fully loaded. Jonah’s unreadable but too intense. Miles is trying very hard to pretend this is academic. Seb’s eyes flick around the room like he’s analyzing the escape routes. And Asher… Asher just beams at me like I invented joy.

I gesture to the circle. “Welcome to the fifth pillar: Receive the Softness, Offer the Seed.”

Jax makes a low noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. I ignore it.

“Today’s focus is on open-hearted receptivity and intentional energetic offering. This is not about sex. This is about surrender. About masculine presence rooted in nourishment instead of conquest.” I say that last part slowly, with full robe billow and hand flourish, and I swear half the room shifts like they felt it in their solar plexus. “I want you to sit with your breath. Feel it enter your body, warm, slow, safe. Inhale the softness. Exhale your inner drought.”

Jax coughs. Loudly. “Did you say drought or…?”

“Drought,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Like the dry, cracked emotional landscape of your pre-rewilded self.”

He makes a small gesture like, Sure, sure, and settles back into the mat with a grin.

I continue. “Tantric breathwork is not about climax. It’s about connection. A slow offering of awareness. A devotion to presence. A way of saying: here I am, whole, ready to root.”

I pause, letting the words land, even if Jax is mouthing ‘ready to root’ like it belongs on a T-shirt.

Asher nods, eyes wide and deeply, almost tragically sincere.

Seb exhales like he’s already grounding himself through the floor.

Miles adjusts his posture like he’s calculating how to get maximum lung expansion without betraying how into this he might be.

Jonah just watches me. Still. Focused. Not mocking. Not moved. Just… watching.

“Let the breath carry your intention. Let it soften the places where you hold. You are not trying to take. You are learning to receive.” I step into the center of the circle, very aware of the eyes following me, and lower myself gracefully onto my own mat. “Close your eyes,” I say softly, “And begin.”

They close their eyes like they’re actually taking this seriously. Which, at first, fills me with pride. Until about thirty seconds in, when I realize they’re taking it a little too seriously.

“Breathe in,” I say, voice soft, low, sacred. “In through the nose. Hold. Let it bloom. Exhale slowly through the mouth. Release. Surrender.”

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