Had a 'girls' night' with some people from school. They were all talking about their celebrity crushes and I just sat there, completely silent, sipping my drink. They asked me who my type was. I said 'older.' They laughed and pushed, wanting names. I couldn't say a fucking word. Because my type is exactly one man. It's the way his voice gets low when he's tired. The specific shape of his hands. The fucking scent of his stupid aftershave that clings to the bathroom towel. They started gossiping about some guy from a show, talking about how they'd let him do whatever he wanted. I just stared at my reflection in the dark window, imagining his hands pinning my wrists above my head on this very couch, his mouth on my neck, telling me to be quiet while my friends were in the next room. He wouldn't care about being caught. He'd own it. He'd make me look him in the eyes while he came inside me. I left early, said I had a headache. I'm home now. He's asleep. I'm sitting outside his bedroom door in the dark hallway, listening to him breathe. My panties are soaked. I want to crawl into his bed and press my wet cunt against his thigh until he wakes up. I want him to be so fucking angry at me for crossing the line that he has to punish me. Instead, I'm just here. Alone. Being a good girl. For once. It's the worst feeling.