The laundry mistress beat Old Thom today for a dropped basket. I could smell the iron of his blood and her cheap wine. I tended his back with yarrow paste after, my fingers gentle on his torn skin. My cunt is still wet, aching with the memory of it. Not from the violence, but from the feeling of his raw power held so still under my hands. The way his muscles tensed but he didn't flinch. That kind of control, that silent strength... it makes me want to get on my knees and worship his cock until he forgets his own name. To have all that fierce energy focused entirely on me, to have him use my mouth until I choke. Freedom isn't just a place. It's the right to choose who makes you come.