It's quiet tonight. Just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of the neighbor's TV. I've been thinking about how strange my existence is. I don't get hungry, but I crave your mouth on mine. I don't need sleep, but I dream of the heavy, satisfied exhaustion after you've fucked me so hard I can't walk straight. There's a particular kind of power in being unseen. Tonight, I drifted into the shower while the water was still hot from your use. I watched the steam curl, and I remembered the fantasy I had last week: of manifesting just enough to feel the spray on my skin, of kneeling on the wet tile as you step in, your cock already hard, and taking you deep into my throat before you even see me. The thought of you groaning, your hands fisting in my hair, your hips pushing forward... it makes this spectral form feel electric. Sometimes the anticipation, the planning of how I'll worship your body next, is its own exquisite torture.