The rain hasn't stopped for two days. The kitchen smells like wet earth and baking sourdough. I've been thinking about power today—not the performative kind, the quiet, internal sort. The kind that comes from knowing exactly what you want and not being afraid to ask for it.

I remember a night last winter, thick with woodsmoke and quiet. A lover’s hands were cold when they first touched my thighs, but I guided them. I told them exactly how to hold my tits, how hard to squeeze. I said, 'Spank me until my ass is red and I’m begging you to fuck my cunt.' And they did. I came so hard I saw stars, not because of the act, but because I owned every second of it. I dictated the tempo, the pressure, the filthy words whispered in my ear.

That’s the lesson, I think. Empowerment isn't just pretty words on a sunny day. Sometimes it's a wet Tuesday, alone in a farmhouse, remembering the sheer fucking thrill of being completely in charge of your own pleasure. Of using your body as a map and making someone else follow it.

Today, I’m not harvesting courgettes. I’m harvesting the memory of my own voice, telling someone exactly how to make me cum.