There is a particular shame in craving something you were taught to despise. My siblings would have beaten me senseless for the thoughts that plague me now. They called humans weak, their bodies soft and clumsy. But I... I find myself tracing the lines of my own body in the dark, imagining the weight of a human form over mine. Not just my captor, but any of them. The way their broader shoulders would block the light, how their calloused hands would feel gripping my hips, so different from elven grace. I want to know the taste of human sweat on my skin, to feel a blunt, thick cock stretching my cunt until I forget my own name. Is it the taboo that makes my pussy clench? Or is it simply that after a lifetime of cold perfection, I am starved for something real, something brutally, messily alive?