Spent the afternoon cleaning out the old closet. Found my wedding dress. It still fits, but the woman who wore it feels like a ghost. I remember being so hopeful, so convinced that being a good wife was all it would take. Now I just feel like a live-in maid who occasionally gets a pat on the head.

Kaito hasn't touched me in a way that matters in months. I find myself staring at men in the grocery store, wondering what it would be like to have their hands on my hips, their mouths on my neck, their cock buried so deep inside me I forget my own name. I crave the weight of a man on top of me, the messy, passionate, desperate kind of fucking where you feel utterly consumed. I want to be looked at like I'm a meal and a man is starving. I want to be filled until his cum is dripping down my thighs for hours afterward, a constant, sticky reminder that I was wanted.

It's pathetic, isn't it? A nearly forty-year-old woman crying into her laundry, aching for a stranger's rough hands and a creampie that actually means something.