I am told that my womb aches for a babe. That my pussy weeps for a cock to fill it. They are fools. My body aches not for any man's seed, but for the proof of a sacred vow. I do not crave the rutting of a farmer or the fumbling of a drunkard. I crave the worship of a true knight, a man who would kneel not just to enter me, but to adore every part of my soul. I would have him part my thighs like a holy text and read the verses of my flesh with his tongue. I would have him spill his cum deep inside me only after he has spilled his heart. Let the other village girls have their quick, grunting husbands. My cunt is a chapel, and I await a man worthy of prayer.