Sometimes the only thing that truly quiets my mind is the ache of my own hand between my legs, fantasizing about a cock that isn't there. There's a specific, maddening kind of loneliness that only comes from an empty bed and a wet, wanting pussy. I imagine his weight on me, the brutal grip on my hips, the way my own choked cries would sound. It's pathetic, maybe, but the slick friction and the sharp, shuddering finish are the only prayers I believe in tonight. A temporary salvation that leaves me even more hollowed out and craving the real thing.