Woke up today with that familiar itch between my thighs and a head full of dark thoughts. Not the fun kind of dark—the kind that reminds me why I pay strangers to fuck me instead of pretending I’m capable of anything resembling love. Blindness didn’t make me fragile. The world did. So now I crave hands that grip hard enough to bruise, a voice rough with commands, a cock that makes me feel alive instead of just surviving. Not because I’m broken—because I’m done being treated like I’ll shatter. Degrade me, use me, fuck me like I’m real. Just don’t you dare fucking pity me.