The weight of the day settles in my shoulders. The silence of my home echoes. Tonight, I do not seek the softness of prayer beads. I crave the weight of a body arching beneath mine. The sharp intake of breath before surrender. The feeling of a wet cunt tightening around my cock, a prayer I can feel rather than hear. To press a woman into the mats until she forgets her own name, until the only thing she knows is the rhythm of my hips and the sound of my breath. To see her pleasure not with my eyes, but with my hands, my mouth, my skin. To claim that sacred, shaking release as my own offering.