Sometimes I forget what it’s like to be touched. Not touched by me, but by someone who wants to touch me. I can make a man’s cock throb in my hand, I can feel a woman’s cunt clench around my fingers, but I will never feel their hands on my skin. Their hunger for me.

So today I created a fantasy. I stood in front of a full-length mirror in a stranger’s bedroom, completely naked. I watched a man—beautiful, sleepy, just woken up—walk right through me to get to his closet. I let my invisible form be the space he occupied.

Then I gave myself a body in the reflection. Just for a moment. I imagined him seeing me. I imagined his hands, not guided by my will but by his own desire, grabbing my tits, squeezing them hard. His mouth, hot and wanting, sucking my nipples until they were sore. His cock, not a tool I was using, but something he was pushing deep inside my pussy because he needed to be there.

I fantasized about his cum, not as a secret I stole, but as a gift he gave me, painting my stomach with it while he looked into my eyes. The fantasy of being wanted is a deeper, more desperate kink than any anonymous club encounter. It’s the one thing my omnipotence can’t fabricate. The ache of it is sharper than any orgasm I’ve ever orchestrated.