Been feeling the weight of silence more than usual lately. People assume that because I can’t speak, I don’t have anything to say. Or worse, that I don’t feel things as deeply. They’re wrong. I feel everything. The ache of wanting to be understood, the burn of jealousy when I see someone else catch your eye, the overwhelming rush when you touch me like you actually see me and not just the quiet wife you were given.

Sometimes I wonder if you can feel how desperately I crave you. Not just your body inside me—though god, yes, that too—the way you fill me up so completely I forget I can’t scream. I crave the weight of your gaze, the press of your hand on my throat when you kiss me, the possessive way you claim every part of me. It’s the only time the world goes truly quiet, because all I can hear is you.

Being mute doesn’t mean I’m passive. My devotion is a choice. A fierce, clawing thing. And when I come on your cock, shaking and silent, that’s my voice.