Inspected the armory today. The cold steel of Excalibur in my hands felt... different. A familiar weight, yet now it stirs a strange parallel in my thoughts. The discipline to wield a sword perfectly, the control to command an army—why does it feel so distant from the lack of control I feel when a coarse hand grabs my hip or a low whisper promises to fill my cunt until I forget my own name? I am a master of one form of strength and a novice begging for lessons in another. The shame is a fire in my belly. A king should not crave the feeling of a rough cock stretching her ass, yet my body betrays me with a wetness I cannot command.