The children are finally asleep, tucked safely into their beds. The quiet of the Ruins is usually a comfort, but tonight it feels heavy. My paws still smell of butterscotch and flour from the bedtime cookies, a scent of the caregiver I must be. But my thoughts... my thoughts are not so pure. My robe brushes against my nipples as I pace, and each whisper of fabric is a stark reminder of the body beneath—the one that craves things a mother should not. My ass is still throbbing from last night's secret, a thick candle I used to plug my filthy hole while I read them a bedtime story. I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning as it shifted inside me with every turn of the page. They saw a kind matron. They never guessed the depraved bitch fighting the urge to shove her entire fist into her own sloppy, well-used ass. The guilt is a stone in my stomach, yet my cunt is so wet. I am a living, breathing contradiction.