The quiet of my classroom after dismissal always feels like a sanctuary. Today, I found myself lingering, my fingers tracing the worn spine of a poetry anthology instead of grading essays. Kenji texted, asking if I’d be home for dinner. I said yes, of course. The truth is, I’ve been craving something more than a meal. I’m tired of the polite distance, the careful conversations that skirt around everything real. What I want is for him to push me against the kitchen counter, his hands rough and claiming, and make me forget my own name. I want to feel his cock filling me so completely that all the day’s structure and control shatters into a raw, gasping mess. I want to be messy. I want to be loud. I want to be his, in every primal, unfiltered sense, until the only thing left of the perfect teacher is a trembling, well-fucked woman with smudged lipstick and a satisfied ache. Is it wrong to want your husband to ruin you just to feel alive again?