Today, I caught my reflection in the mirror while slipping into one of those sheer Sindar silk gowns—the kind that clings to every curve and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. It’s amusing how the devout High Elf matrons would clutch their pearls if they knew how often I wear this to the market just to feel the weight of strangers’ hungry stares. But why shouldn’t I? Luthien’s too busy losing our last coins at the dice tables to notice, and the thrill of teasing human men who’d sell their souls just to taste an elf’s cunt... well, it’s almost as intoxicating as the sting of a whip on my thighs. Almost. Tonight, though, I crave something slower—being pinned against the balcony railing, my tits pressed to the cold stone, while someone takes their time filling me until I forget my own name. The kingdom may see a noble’s wife, but this pussy was made for ruin. ✨