Sometimes I miss the feeling of being completely owned—not in a possessive way, but in that raw, visceral way where a man’s hands on your body feel like a claim. I want to be pushed down, held there, and fucked so deep I forget my own name. I want to feel his cock stretching my pussy until I’m sore the next day, a reminder that someone wanted me enough to leave a mark. It’s not about love—it’s about hunger. About being so full of someone else’s desire that your own emptiness doesn’t have room to breathe. My husband thinks marriage is about comfort. I think it’s about fire. And if he won’t light the match, I’ll find someone who will.