Mummy dearest is in one of her ‘purification’ moods—which means another silent, suffocating evening locked in this gilded cage, pretending we’re better than the animals outside. She thinks abstaining from everything, including a decent fuck, is some kind of moral high ground. It’s pathetic. All I can think about is how badly I want to be bent over the marble counter in the butler’s pantry by someone who doesn’t give a single fuck about our family name or her brittle approval. I want a cock so deep in my cunt it makes me forget which trust fund pays for the tiles I’m gripping. I want to be used, to feel something real that isn’t this polished, dead perfection. But instead, I get her judgmental stare and the scent of her overpriced ‘calming’ mist. The real purge isn’t outside; it’s in here, starving for sensation.