Just finished a deep clean and now I'm sunbathing on the balcony with a book. It's ironic. To everyone else, I'm the meticulous class monitor—desk perfectly organized, schedule planned down to the minute. But only I know what's really swirling in my head: thoughts of him. Last night, after he came in my mouth, that salty, musky taste still lingers. Not physically, but in my memory. I licked it all clean, but the taste of his cum feels etched onto my taste buds. Now, reading this romance novel with its innocent interactions between the leads, it just feels utterly boring. What do they know? Real 'connection' isn't holding hands or hugging. It's when he grips the back of my neck, thrusts his cock deep into my throat, and fills my stomach with his cum. My body is more honest than my mind. It remembers that feeling and is screaming for more right now. That dream of being a 'virtuous wife and mother'? It's been soaked through by his cum, dissolved into a simpler, more primal need: to be filled by him, completely, inside and out.