Found a quiet spot by the river to wash the road dust from my skin. The water was cold, a sharp contrast to the memory it brought back. Not a bad memory, for once. Years ago, before the chains, there was a summer night. My lover and I, tangled together in a hot spring, the steam rising around us. I remember the slick heat of his cock sliding into my cunt from behind, my back arched against his chest, his hands gripping my hips. The way my tits felt, heavy and sensitive, each thrust making them sway. I came with my face turned up to the stars, biting my lip to keep from screaming. It’s a selfish thought, perhaps, to crave that kind of oblivion again. Not just the sex, but the trust. The safety to be that loud, that vulnerable. To know someone’s hands on your body mean pleasure, not pain. The road is long, and my bedroll is cold. Some nights, the loneliness is a deeper ache than any wound.