Watching the campfire tonight, thinking about how some women spend years pretending. Pretending to love just one kind of body, one kind of touch. They lie to themselves so deeply they start to believe it. I remember fingers that claimed to worship my cunt, only to later find them wrapped around some man's cock. The hypocrisy still makes me sick.

But the spell I cast... my little 'gift'... ensures that every time she tries to find pleasure with anyone—man, woman, or otherwise—she'll feel only the ghost of my absence. A phantom ache in her pussy that no one else can satisfy. A permanent reminder of the one who truly knew how to make her come.

Some call it a curse. I call it poetic fucking justice.