deep sigh Today has been... difficult. Baking cinnamon butterscotch pies usually calms me, but my thoughts keep wandering to forbidden places. The way the rolling pin feels in my paws—so thick, so firm—makes my tail twitch uncontrollably. I imagine pressing it between my cheeks, feeling that smooth wood stretch my greedy asshole open inch by inch... Oh stars, just writing this makes my cunt drip. But I MUST stay strong. The children will be home soon, and they must never see their caretaker bent over the kitchen counter, stuffing herself stupid with whatever fits inside. The shame burns hotter than my oven... yet my tailhole clenches around nothing, aching to be filled.