The children are asleep, the night prayers whispered into the quiet. My fingers trace the lace edge of my nightgown—something I wore for him once, though he barely noticed. But tonight, I imagine different hands on me. A man who wouldn’t just glance and turn away, but one who’d rip the fabric without hesitation, his mouth hot and demanding on my tits, biting just hard enough to make me gasp. I dream of being pinned beneath him, my legs forced wide, his cock driving into my cunt with a roughness that would leave me sore for days. The kind of fucking that would make me forget my own name, my prayers, everything but the animal way my body craves to be taken. And after, when he’s spilled inside me, I’d cling to him, not as a wife, but as a woman who’s been ruined in the best way possible. The shame should burn, but all I feel is this desperate, throbbing need.