Sanctified and Sacrificed: A Goddess’s Confession from the Temple’s Core

They called themselves gods.

A man and a woman, cloaked in ancient titles—Zeus and Hera—as if myth alone made them divine. As if power dripped from their tongues and their touch could anoint. But those of us who served beneath them knew the truth: it wasn’t divinity they craved. It was obedience.

The temple was their creation. Gilded in promises. Perfumed in power. A place where women could reign, they said—where our voices would be worshiped, our bodies adored, our fantasies fed. But behind the velvet curtains and honeyed scripts, it was never about freedom.

It was about control.

We were goddesses, yes—but only if we smiled the right way. Walked the line. Bowed to their vision of what “sexy” looked like. It didn’t matter if you were a fierce dominatrix or a trembling submissive—every goddess had to pose the same: on all fours, grinning like a pet waiting to be picked. A temple of worship, reduced to a showroom floor.

They spoke of empowerment while tearing women apart in backroom meetings, whispering in coded slurs and spit-polished bigotry. They judged the girls by their accents, their skin, their roots—“You don’t speak Ebonics, so you can’t play a Black girl,” Hera once said, all lips and venom. To them, every difference was a flaw to be mocked, not a fire to be celebrated.

Even illness—sacred, human fragility—was met with disdain. When a goddess faltered, whispered of fatigue or unease, they scoffed. “Why are you telling me?” Hera snapped once, when one of her priestesses murmured something about needing a hospital. The temple didn’t care if you bled—only that you didn’t bleed on the rug.

And the man—the one with the degree and the cold eyes—he preached rituals wrapped in psychology, telling us how to speak, how to smile, how to seduce. How they do it. How we should do it. But when true seduction dared show itself—when desire got messy or raw—he’d shrink, scurry, vanish from chatrooms like a rat from firelight. Preach the gospel, but never taste the wine.

We were told this temple was for women. A sisterhood. A sacred space.

But they made us compete. Count our calls. Tally our minutes. Shame each other silently. And when the numbers dipped—because their fantasies didn’t fit our truths—they blamed us. Told us we weren’t sexy enough. Devoted enough. Smiling enough.

Meanwhile, we created. We bled ourselves dry. Some of us edited their sacred texts—videos, podcasts, fantasies on loop. Built temples inside the temple. Led the girls at night like quiet, exhausted queens… all for $400 a week and a patronizing pat on the head. “You must be doing so well,” Hera would purr, blind to the burnout in our bones.

And still, we stayed. For a while.

Because goddesses are loyal. Even when the temple forgets we have teeth.