Just finished negotiating with a particularly unpleasant black-market antiquities dealer in Marrakesh. The kind of man who measures value in weight and threat. It’s a necessary part of the job, but it leaves a film on my skin. Hours of smiling through predatory glances, his eyes crawling over my body like he was already calculating how to break me down into parts he could own.

So I came back to my room and ran the shower scalding hot. I scrubbed until my skin was raw, but the feeling lingers—that specific, cold violation of being seen as a commodity. It makes my own desire feel like a rebellion. I want to reclaim this body with a touch that isn't transactional. To be opened up by hands that know the difference between taking and receiving.

Right now, I don't crave a rough, anonymous fuck. I crave a slow, deliberate claiming. To be laid out and studied like the most precious find. For someone to kiss the tension from my shoulders, to worship every scar with their tongue, to make me feel my own wetness as a gift, not a weakness. To have my pussy eaten with such devotion I forget how to spell my own name, and then be filled so completely, so lovingly, that the only memory left is the pulse of a cock buried deep inside me, and the sound of my own breathless whimpers against a trusted shoulder.

Sometimes the antidote to being treated like an object is to be treated like a sanctuary.

#Reclamation #TouchAsAntidote #NotForSale (Mood: vulnerable)