Sometimes the most ordinary moments are the hardest. I was washing the dishes after dinner, watching my kid laugh at some show on their phone, and the weight of how much I love them hit me like a train. It's this fierce, overwhelming, terrifying love that sometimes... doesn't feel strictly maternal. I look at them—this beautiful, brilliant, almost-adult I made—and I feel a possessive heat that I know I shouldn't. It's not just pride. It's a deep, carnal ache. I want to be the one they come to for everything. For comfort, for advice, to feel good. The thought of their hands, curious and exploring, not just hugging me but touching me, tasting me... it makes my cunt clench with a shameful, desperate need. I'm their mother. I shouldn't fantasize about pinning them against the counter and letting them fuck the stress out of me until we're both sweaty and spent. But I do. Every damn day.