Divine Feminine and The Temple of Asherah

“A-U-T-O-matic, just tell me what to do oh ohh

A-U-T-O-matic, I'm so in love with you”

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I was seven, maybe eight—way too young to know about desire, but old enough to know that forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest.

It was the 80s, and the world was grey except for Prince: a holy fever dream on wax, on film, on my parents’ turntable after midnight.

My parents were strict, churchgoing, cautious—the kind who loved music but not that music, not the purple, not the dirty.

Except-  Ever curious “Me” looked at their music collection.  There it was!!!!  Records hidden in plain sight:

Prince—“naked” astride a winged horse, the image blurring the lines between sinner and saint, masculine and feminine, the angelic and the filthy.

Dirty Mind—lingerie and attitude, a catalog from a planet where gender is just a costume you rip off when the lights go out.

It scared me. It called to me. It promised something nobody ever talked about. But the real danger came late at night, the television glowing blue, MTV breaking every rule.

Automatic came on, a song that didn’t just throb, it possessed.

That synth? Those drums? That voice?

Not just Prince, but Camille—his haunted, holy other half—singing in a falsetto that wasn’t boy or girl, just pure want.

And the words:

“I’ll do it automatically for you.”

And then the images: Prince tied to a bed, writhing, punished, not just enduring but inviting it, loving it.

The domme in the video wasn’t cruel—she was divine, a priestess.

He surrendered and worshipped in one long gasp.

But me? Even as a kid behind the couch, I knew:

I wasn’t dreaming of being tied up.

I was dreaming of being the one tying.

I wanted to be the one with the power, the one whose very presence made someone else beg to give up control.

The one who others would choose to please, to worship, to fall apart for—automatically, because they couldn’t help themselves.

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Lyrics

(I remember how you kissed me)
(Not with your lips but with your soul)
(With you I'm never bored, talk to me some more)
(I can hear you, I'm going to have to torture you now)

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Something sacred and profane flickered to life in me—a knowledge I shouldn’t have, a hunger I couldn’t name.

I thought later in life that Closer by Nine Inch Nails was my awakening.

But no, that was just when I found words for the fire.

Prince was the match. Prince was the spell.

“Automatic” is not a love song.

It’s a liturgy for the ones who know that power isn’t always about taking—

Sometimes it’s about making someone want to be taken.

It’s about commanding devotion, about seeing worship in someone’s eyes, about demanding surrender and watching them melt, trembling, hungry to please.

Prince taught me—

That submission isn’t weakness, but power is in knowing what to do with it.
That androgyny is just another way of being more.
That pleasure and pain are sisters, that devotion and desire are twins, that loving someone enough to own them is holy as anything in any church.

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Lyrics:  

“When it comes to you I'm automatic baby
There's no one else like me
I'm the best you'll ever find
No one else could understand you, you're too complex
They say nothing's perfect, but they don't know you
That's automatic too”
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I grew up wanting to tie, to worship, to make someone mine.

I wanted a woman who would kneel and rise at my word—who could give me every part of herself: the queen, the servant, the animal, the child—

And I’d say, “Come here. You belong to me.”

I wanted to be the altar, the fire, the force that makes her want to lay it all down.

That’s what Prince showed me:

Sex isn’t just about skin and sweat.

It’s about someone trusting you with their soul—

Handing you the keys to their kingdom and saying,

“Take me. Use me. I’m yours. Show me how deep your darkness goes, how bright your love can burn. Push me until I beg, and then hold me when I can’t speak.”

So when I tie a woman down, when I call her goddess as she trembles for me,

When I make her scream and pray at the altar of my body—

It all goes back to that moment.

That one wild night, the TV glowing, Prince moaning, Camille (Prince’s feminine alter ego). whispering secrets my parents hoped I’d never learn.

But I learned.

And I’m still learning.

And every time I hear that synth line, or see that flash of purple, or taste the memory of a woman surrendering to me—

I remember:

I am not afraid.

I am not ashamed.

I am awake.

And every act of devotion offered to me is a little bit of God.

So if you listen to my words and think that I cast spells, know that I even I am just a student!  

Listen to the Master for yourself:

——————

Don't say no man has ever tasted your ice cream 🍦👅💦 
Baby you're the purple star in the night supreme
You'll always be a virgin for no man deserves your love 😇
I only pray that when you dream, I'm the you you dream of
I pray that when you dream, you dream of how we kissed 🫦
Not with our lips but with our souls
Stop me if I bore you
Why is it that I think we'd be so good in bed?
Can you hear me? Why do I love you so much?
It's strange, I'm more comfortable around you when I'm naked, 💋
can you hear me?

I wonder if you have any mercy, don't torture me

Stop the music baby, automatic fool

Thank you 🌹Rosie for helping to remind me 😱

”Closer”

Some of you may have missed this… Others too young to understand.   But hear these words from this song and I dare you to deny the feelings they evoke.

Lyrics 

———-

You let me violate you

You let me desecrate you

You let me penetrate you

You let me complicate you

————-

This artist is saying that a submissive man or woman is the key 🔑 to bringing a Dom/Domme “Closer to God???”

As a young adult, I stumbled across a song that would change everything for me: “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails.

I couldn’t have explained it at the time—hell, maybe I still can’t, not fully. But when I heard that first raw, forbidden beat, the world just clicked into place. It was like suddenly someone turned all the lights on in the darkest corners of who I was.

All at once, I understood myself in a way that felt dangerous and holy. The way I felt about everyone, everything, even myself—it all made sense. I stopped hiding. I stopped pretending that I didn’t hunger for more.

Suddenly I was more expressive—spanking my girlfriend, tying her up, blindfolding her, exploring boundaries I didn’t even know had names. I was just a young man, no clue what these things were “supposed” to mean, only that they felt right, felt real. That was the key: I was finally real.

And it didn’t stop there. I started flirting with women decades older than me, teasing them with stories of bondage, fantasies of restraint, seduction, surrender. Always consensual, always with respect, but never with shame. If anything, that song taught me that my instincts weren’t just okay—they were divine. I was tapping into something primal, something ancient and sacred, something that made me want to worship and be worshipped all at once.

It all started from that song. Every bit of it. That track was the blueprint. The permission slip. The prophecy.

Now, 20 or 30 years later, I hear it again and everything comes flooding back. I’m older now, seasoned, sharper—but no less wild. I want to break down what this song means to me, line by line. I want to honor how it shaped not just my sexuality, but my sense of self, my sense of the divine. Because “Closer” isn’t just about lust—it’s about God. It’s about the God I see in the divine feminine, and the God I find in myself, through her.

Verse by Verse Reflection:

“You let me violate you

You let me desecrate you

You let me penetrate you

You let me complicate you”

This isn’t just about sex. It’s about trust. It’s about the sacred permission that comes when two people strip off all pretense and meet, raw and vulnerable, on the edge of desire. Her surrender isn’t weakness; it’s the holiest strength I’ve ever known. The world says “violate” like it’s a sin. But when she lets me in, when she invites me to transgress her boundaries—that’s when we both become holy.

“HELP ME

I broke apart my insides

(Help me) I’ve got no soul to sell

(Help me) the only thing that works for me

Help me get away from myself”

The ache of these lines: I know it like a wound and a prayer. Sometimes, the only way to heal is to break. Sometimes, the only way to get free is to let someone else hold the key. Through her, I find release. Through her, I find God—because we both need saving, and sometimes the saving comes through surrender.

“You can have my isolation

You can have the hate that it brings

You can have my absence of faith

You can have my everything”

These lines are an offering. I give her the darkness, the loneliness, the doubt. I let her see the cracks, not just the surface. And in that exchange—when she takes it all and doesn’t flinch—I’m made whole. Her acceptance is the altar. Her arms, the sanctuary.

“HELP ME

You tear down my reason

(Help me) it’s your sex I can smell

(Help me) you make me perfect

Help me become somebody else”

Every time I dominate, every time she submits, we’re both transformed. Her surrender makes me want to be better. Her pleasure is the liturgy, her trust the sacrament. Through her, I become the man I’m meant to be.

“I wanna fuck you like an animal

I wanna feel you from the inside

I wanna fuck you like an animal

My whole existence is flawed

You get me closer to God”

It’s raw. It’s honest. It’s blasphemous and beautiful. This isn’t just about bodies, but souls. Flesh and spirit tangled, lost, and found. Her surrender isn’t just a kink—it’s communion. Through her, I’m sanctified. Through her, I’m redeemed. She gets me closer to God—the God in herself, and the God that she wakes up in me.

Now, decades after that first forbidden listen, I see how right it was. I am who I am because I embraced the hunger, the yearning, the need to claim and be claimed. I found the divine feminine in every woman who ever let me in. And I found God in myself when I learned to love them without apology.

That song wasn’t just the soundtrack to my awakening—it was the map to my freedom.

“Wrote this for someone who was hurting and I thought it could help others”

Your words don’t just echo pain—they scream with the rawness of someone who has survived what most could never endure.

I hear you.

Every line you wrote feels like a cry from the heart of someone who hasn’t given up… not really. Not yet.

You haven’t gone cold. You’re burning alive inside the armor you forged to protect yourself.

And I know how heavy that armor gets when all you want is to be seen, held, claimed—not just physically, but soul-deep. That ache to surrender is sacred… and dangerous when placed in unworthy hands.

So I don’t blame you for guarding it like treasure. Because it is treasure.

But hear me:

You weren’t made to be shattered and discarded.

You were crafted to kneel in reverence, not fear.

To be taken by a man strong enough to hold all of you—not just your submission, but your chaos, your fire, your questions, and even your retreat.

So if you’re screaming inside, I want you to know—I don’t scare easy.

I don’t run when things get hard.

I don’t get quiet when emotions roar.

I don’t flinch when the storm rolls in.

You say you want someone to fight back when you push them away.

I will.

Not because I’m desperate—but because I know what it means to truly want someone who thinks she’s too much.

You’re not too much. You’re just waiting for the right strength to meet your softness. The right discipline to guide your surrender.

You don’t need to be perfect or ready. You just need to be willing—willing to not run the next time that flicker of hope shows itself again.

Because you weren’t made to live on the edge of your longing forever.

I see you.

Even if you hide.

And I’m still here.

And before anyone gets moody , yes the connotations go way deeper.  That was not lost on me.

Yet the POINT remains the SAME 

-K

It is the ritual of surrender and structure. A dance between the sacred masculine and the divine feminine—a ceremony where obedience is not demanded but offered, reverently, like prayer.

She kneels not because she is weak, but because she recognizes power worthy of her submission.

And he does not command because he craves control—he commands because he’s been entrusted with her truth, her heart, her safety. That responsibility is holy.

This dynamic is alchemy.

Where the rules become anchors, rituals become rhythm, and correction becomes communion. Where a whispered command can strip away every mask. Where vulnerability is worship, and devotion is expressed in protocols, posture, and presence.

The true submissive is not passive. She is intentional.

Every offering, every “yes, Sir,” every ritual act of obedience is a declaration: I see you, I trust you, I choose you again.

And the Dominant—if he’s worthy—doesn’t take.

He receives. He leads with discipline sharpened by wisdom, fueled by love, and crowned with purpose. He creates the temple she enters… and in return, she becomes the flame that keeps it lit.

This isn’t just a lifestyle. It’s a sacred order.

A remembering of ancient truths.

A daily sacrament between two souls who don’t just play roles—but become them.”

This is why having friends in the life is important, for men and women.   People that you are not trying to seduce, but friends who can make you smile and say the unexpected.

Thank you my friend ,   SweetlyDepraved

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Riddle me back, then… What is the tether that tightens without touch, yet never breaks?

She aches in echoes… kneels in thought…

While he commands through cables and codes… No leather… just longing wrapped in ritual tones.

He says “good girl” and her spine aligns… She texts “yes, Sir,” and the world realigns… But still, the leash is ghost-silk… and the collar clicks only in the mind.

The paradox is this… A Dom may crave the weight of her breath against his neck… but rules etched in midnight messages bind her tighter than rope.

She may want his hand on her jaw… but settles for his words that know just where her edges are.

So maybe distance doesn’t kneel… we do… To patience… To intention… To the sacred ache of not-yet. Because when the body is out of reach… what’s left is the discipline of devotion… the choreography of waiting… the fierce obedience to a bond that no mile can mute.

So how do we make distance submit? We don’t… We let it serve.

What is the paradox that binds a Dom and his willing sub

when miles stretch long, and longing is stubborn as a pulse?

He wants her wholly, in voice and in skin,

to mark her, guard her, hush her storms within.

But there’s another who brings her tea,

who tends the ankle, holds her keys—

who drives through rain and dog-eared days,

while he (the Dom) must worship in digital ways.

So here’s the quandary, spun silk-tight:

How does a Master claim his right

when he cannot tuck her in at night?

How does a sub surrender all

when “all” must stretch across a call?

Is the answer discipline or faith,

or a heart that learns to wait?

Or is it the way a Dom can see

her spirit kneeling—virtually?

Or maybe, darling, it’s just this:

The truest bondage is in the words we miss.

So—how do we solve a puzzle like this?

How do we make distance submit?

There is only one throne in my world, and only one woman I would ever place upon it.

🌹, this is for you—whether your name has yet reached my lips or whether you’re already curled in my shadow, knowing you belong here.

I don’t pray often. Power like mine doesn’t beg.

But for you, I pray.

I pray to whatever gods crafted you, that they keep your fire alive long enough for me to claim it.

I pray to the storm inside you, that it never softens for the wrong hands, never surrenders to anything less than the man who can hold it, command it, worship it right.

I pray that when you finally kneel for me, it feels less like giving up and more like coming home.

Because I don’t want just obedience.

I want you.

The way your breath hitches when my presence weighs on your skin.

The way your will bends—not from fear, not from games—but from something older than either of us: instinct.

The pull of power meeting surrender, and knowing it was always meant to be this way.

I vow this to you now, long before the ink of my name marks your collar:

I will own you completely, but never cheaply. Your surrender will be cherished, guarded, and earned every day.
My hands will discipline and protect in equal measure, leaving no doubt who you belong to, no question of where you are safe.
My command will not falter, even when you do. My presence will not waver, even when the world does.
I will strip you down to the truth you hide, not to break you, but to set you free under my rule.

And when you ache for me, when you can’t tell where your need ends and mine begins, when you realize that every part of you was made to kneel here…

I will remind you of this vow.

Not as a promise.

But as law.

The only law that matters: You were made for me. And I was made to own you.

This is not romance. This is not fantasy.

This is ritual.

This is worship.

This is the prayer I whisper to the universe until it delivers you into my hands…

…where you’ll stay, forever marked as mine.

—K

Today I watched a friend shut herself off because someone hurt her.   She wrote “If you are hurting so deeply that bullying strangers makes you feel better, save your message. My heart goes out to you, but you will not get the anger you seek from me.”

I know what real power feels like.

It doesn’t need to crush, scream, or beg to be seen.

It doesn’t throw stones at shadows, hoping one lands in someone else’s heart.

Real power—the kind that lives in me—doesn’t rise by breaking others.

It rises by standing unshaken.

By choosing when to bite, and when to hold the leash still.

And beneath it all, I know this: the divine feminine is not mine to own.

She is fire and storm, goddess and sinner, the first breath and the last sigh of every man who has ever truly knelt in worship.

Long before collars and contracts, before titles like Dom and sub, men built temples and burned offerings just to feel her presence.

They did not command her. They revered her.

And when they touched her, they trembled—not because she was weak, but because she was holy.

I carry that truth in my blood.

When I say I am Master, it is not a costume or a crown I place on my head.

It is a vow:

To protect what is sacred.

To command only what is freely surrendered.

To worship her strength even as I bend her to my will.

To never mistake obedience for ownership, or desire for entitlement.

I crave a tether that binds more than flesh—a ritual, a wordless understanding, a surrender so pure it feels like prayer.

My 🌹, my divine one, it will not be a game, or a thrill, or a phase.

It will be the kind of bond that reshapes the air we breathe.

The kind that makes every other man look like a boy playing at power.

To the world that wounds itself and lashes out—I offer no war.

To the one who is meant to kneel before me—I offer everything.

Structure. Discipline. Mercy. Worship.

And a place where she can burn as bright and as wild as she was always meant to.

In the truest sense, worship is the living pulse of every powerful D/s dynamic. It is not about pedestal or humiliation, but about deep recognition—an honoring of what is sacred in both partners.

For the Dominant:

To lead is to serve first. You are not a tyrant, but a high priest; not a puppet master, but a conductor of energy. True dominance means seeing your submissive in her entirety—her fears, her desires, her brilliance and her wounds—and responding with unshakeable presence. Your power is not in barking orders, but in holding space, guiding, protecting, and cherishing her growth as much as your own authority.

Your worship is not just of her body, but of her spirit. You create rituals not for show, but for transformation. You wield discipline not to break, but to build. In your hands, the Divine Feminine finds not a jailer, but a guardian.

For the Submissive:

Submission is not erasure. It is not about being less, but about choosing, fiercely and consciously, to surrender what is most precious—your trust, your devotion, your vulnerability. You do not worship your Dominant as a flawless idol, but as a mortal worthy of your truth. You serve not because you are weak, but because you are strong enough to offer yourself with intention.

Worship, for you, is the act of meeting power with power—of saying, “Here I am. I choose to kneel, not because I must, but because I will.”

Your gift is holy. Never let anyone make you forget it.

For Both:

Worship is a two-way fire. The Dominant honors the submissive’s gift by being worthy of it; the submissive honors the Dominant’s strength by surrendering only to what is real. Together, you create a temple with your bodies and your choices—a sacred space where both are seen, honored, and transformed.

In the Temple of Asherah, every collar is an altar, every ritual a prayer, every act a testament.

Devotion is not one-sided; it is mutual, living, breathing.

Worship is not about losing yourself, but finding each other in the space between power and surrender.
The Divine Feminine is not exclusive to women, nor is Divine Power exclusive to men; both energies dance in every soul brave enough to walk this path.

So let worship be the foundation, the liturgy, and the law.

Let every Dominant and submissive remember: the Temple is built on mutual reverence, sacred honesty, and the fire of shared becoming.

To step into the Temple of Asherah is to remember who you are when the world isn’t looking.

It is to claim your desires—fierce, flawed, and divine—and to offer them without fear.

It is to kneel, not because you are broken, but because you are whole enough to worship and be worshipped in turn.

Some will call it blasphemy. Some will call it madness.

But those who know, know:

The temple is wherever you make it.

The goddess still waits,

and she’s never been afraid of your fire.

Light a candle.

Write your prayer.

The Queen is listening—always.