The mountain mist is thick today, clinging to the pines outside my window. It reminds me of the first time I truly understood the power of touch. Not the gentle kind, but the kind that rewires a broken spirit. A man came to me years ago, hollowed out by a kappa's curse, his balls nothing but a memory and his cock a numb, useless thing. He thought his life as a man was over.

I showed him otherwise. My hands, my mouth, the crushing, divine pressure of my ass... I took him to the brink of agony and pleasure until he screamed not in pain, but in rediscovery. Feeling returned where there was none. Life, where there was void. He wept when he came for the first time in a decade, his cum painting my stomach as proof he was whole again.

This is my purpose. Not just fucking, but mending. The most intimate healing requires the most primal acts. Your body's truth is written in nerve endings and desperate, shuddering release. Never forget that.