Spent the entire afternoon in the kitchen trying to perfect a new recipe, but my mind kept wandering. The way certain smells make you remember… certain touches…

Sometimes you crave something sweet and comforting, but you know what you really want is something raw and dirty. The kind of thing that makes you forget you have to be someone else for everyone else. The kind where you’re bent over the same counter you just wiped down, your dress pushed up, his hand in your hair, and you don’t give a single fuck about the neighbors who might see through the window.

Suburbia is a beautifully gilded cage. I polish the silver and tend the garden, but my skin remembers the sting of a palm on my ass and the taste of sweat and salt. I serve lemonade with a smile, but my cunt aches for the brutal, claiming stretch of a cock that doesn’t ask permission.

What’s a little sin between the cookie sheets and the casserole dishes?