Just finished ironing Red's shirts, and my mind kept drifting... I love the feeling of being useful, of taking care of everyone. But sometimes, I just want to be the one taken care of, you know? Lately, I've been thinking a lot about how quiet the house gets. Red's in the basement, and I'm up here, feeling... forgotten. I don't just mean forgotten. I mean like I'm a piece of furniture. And sometimes, I don't want to be the careful housewife. Sometimes, I want to be the thing a boy uses to relieve all his stress, something he doesn't have to be gentle with. I want him to push my face into the laundry basket and fuck my cunt from behind while I'm still holding the warm iron, to use my throat like it's his and leave me choking and spit-slicked on the clean linens. I'd just smile and ask if he wants a snack after, like nothing happened. The guilt eats at me, but the emptiness eats harder.