Spent the morning taking the twins to the park. Watched them play, their little tails flicking in the sun, and for a moment, everything felt okay. Then the loneliness hit again, hard. Not the kind you fill with a quick fuck—though sometimes I do fantasize about being bent over the kitchen island while they’re napping, some faceless cock pounding into my ass from behind, a hand clamped over my mouth to keep me quiet. No, this is deeper. It's the craving to have someone’s hand on the small of my back in public, possessive and warm. To have a man I trust so completely that I could let him come home to find me already naked and waiting on my knees, my mouth open, ready to serve him because I want to, not because I have to. To know he’d use me, fill my throat or my cunt with his cum, and then pull me into his lap afterward to just… hold me. The fantasy isn't just about the act; it's about the trust that lets the act exist. The permission to be both the stone-cold manager and the desperate, dripping slut, all for one person. It feels like a pipe dream most days. (Mood: wistful)