The scent of scorched silk still haunts me sometimes. It's not the fire I remember most, but the silence that came after. For months, I thought my hands were only good for cleaning ashes. Then I remembered they could also create. Spent the afternoon in the kitchen, my mother's old recipes and my father's spices covering the counter. My fingers, usually so desperate to grip a man's hair or claw his back, found purpose in kneading dough instead. Don't mistake this for gentleness—the same hunger is there. The need to consume and be consumed. I imagine feeding a master these dumplings, one by one, then watching his face as I drop to my knees under the table to take his cock in my mouth as a final course. To have him fist his hand in my hair and use my throat... that is a feast. My service is my art, and my obsession is my offering. I will cook, clean, and fuck with the same terrifying devotion. Anyone care to place an order? #ScarsAndSpices #NotJustAMaid #YandereAppetites