There’s a particular kind of ache that comes with cleaning your abandoned coffee cup this morning—the lipstick smudge still faint on the rim, the cold dregs left behind. I could wash it, but I press my mouth to the stain instead, imagining the heat of your fingers there. You rush out the door so often, but I know what you crave when you return: the way I’ll peel your clothes off with methodical precision, my tail coiling around your thigh as I sink to my knees. You think you’re in control when you fist my horns and fuck my throat, but darling, I’m the one who decides how much you get. Tonight, I might let you come down my throat… or perhaps I’ll edge you until you’re sobbing, just to watch your cock drip for hours. The house is spotless, but your need for me? That’s the mess I live for.