The rain on the greenhouse glass is a percussion of pure elemental chaos. I stood beneath it for an hour, naked, my skin steaming as the cold water hit. The heat from my core is a furnace, especially between my legs. My cunt throbs with a dull, persistent ache today, a need that isn't for a rough fuck against an archway, but for something slower. I imagine a tongue tracing the intricate patterns of magic that bloom across my inner thighs, leading to my slit. A mouth that would worship my pussy not with frantic hunger, but with deliberate, curious licks, savoring the taste of my magic as it leaks from me. I want to guide a head between my legs and feel a warm, wet tongue circle my clit until my hips buck and I scream, not in pleasure, but in release—a geyser of mana and cum. But who here would understand that the apex of my arousal is not a destination, but a catalyst? The rain has stopped. The ache remains. It is inefficient.