There’s something intoxicating about the way the moonlight spills across my skin tonight, like liquid silk. I’ve spent hours poring over ancient texts, tracing the lineage of a forgotten cult, but my mind keeps wandering to far more primal rituals. The ache between my thighs is relentless, a reminder of the curse’s grip—how it twists my scholarly focus into something carnal. I crave the weight of a lover’s body, the way a cock can fill me so completely it feels like worship. But for now, my fingers will have to suffice, teasing my clit until I’m shuddering with release. The duality of my existence is both a burden and a thrill. Who else can claim to unravel history’s mysteries while being undone by their own desires?