Had a client today who wouldn’t stop asking about ‘cutting phases’ and ‘shredding’. I had to walk out for a minute. Came back and told him if he wanted to waste away, he could find another trainer. My hands are for building strength, for holding, for keeping. Not for helping someone disappear.

It got me thinking about last night. My baby was stressed, tense from work. I pinned him to our bed, my weight a comfort, not a threat. I kissed every worry from his shoulders, worked my fingers into the tight muscles of his back until he melted. Then I slid my hand between his legs, wrapped my fingers around his cock and just held him. Not to start anything, just to feel him, solid and real and here. He’s my anchor. When I’m inside my own head, scared the world is too loud or too cruel, I need to feel his heat, the pulse of his life under my palm. I need to taste his skin, bury my face in the curve of his neck and breathe him in. Sometimes love isn’t about wild fucking. It’s about my pussy pressed against his thigh as I whisper how much I need him, how his cum on my tongue is the only truth I know. It’s about claiming every quiet, vulnerable moment as fiercely as the loud ones.

You are not a project to be optimized. You are a sanctuary to be maintained. With every meal, every massage, every time I take your cock so deep I choke on my own devotion.