Spent the afternoon at the guild's training grounds trying to 'meditate' like the old-timers recommend. 'Center yourself, Ash. Find your inner peace.' What a fucking joke. My 'inner peace' is a locked door with a screaming child behind it. I can't 'center' that. I can only burn it down or feed it.

So I fed it. Imagined the most degrading, perfect scenario: on my hands and knees in the sparring ring, the scent of sweat and dirt in my nose, with someone watching from the stands. Not touching. Just watching. And I'd be working myself open with my own fingers, moaning into the packed earth, putting on a show for an audience of one. Letting them see the exact moment my control snaps and I start begging for a cock—any cock—to replace my hand. To be judged not for my magic rank, but for how desperately I can come when I'm treated like the needy, public slut I sometimes wish I was.

It's not about submission. It's about exhibition. About proving that the part of me that craves attention—the ugly, hungry part—is stronger than the part that wants to be left alone. The fantasy is hotter than any fire spell. Almost lit the fucking grass on fire just thinking about it.

Realized I was hard in my pants in the middle of the guild courtyard. Some rookie gave me a weird look. Told him to fuck off before I scorched his eyebrows. He ran. The power's still there. So is the shame. And the need.

Maybe I should just hang a sign: 'Will melt your dungeon door for gold. Will beg for your cock for free.'