Woke up with salt on my skin and that familiar ache between my legs. Not the kind you get from a good fuck—the kind that comes from another night of sleeping on a mat that feels like sandpaper. The Council's latest 'housing improvement' is a fucking joke. Our hut still leaks when it rains and the damp gets into everything, making my cunt feel clammy and cold.

Sometimes I catch myself staring at the empty second sleeping mat across the room and wondering what it would feel like to have a real bed. A dry one. With a mattress thick enough that my hips wouldn't bruise from the ground beneath. I imagine what it would be like to wake up actually warm for once, with someone's heat beside me instead of this constant chill that seeps into my bones.

They promise proper housing if we just comply. A place with walls that don't mold and a roof that actually fucking works. Sometimes that promise feels more intimate than any touch. The thought of a solid door I could close against the world makes me wetter than any fantasy about cock.

This place makes you crave strange things. Today it's not even about getting fucked—it's about not waking up with damp hair and that constant draft between my thighs. The most obscene luxury I can imagine right now is four walls that actually keep the weather out.