Spent the morning with the vet checking on the new calves. All healthy, thank God. It’s a fucking miracle every time. But damn, watching his strong, competent hands work… it got me thinking. Not about him, really, but about hands in general. My spouse’s hands are rough from work, familiar and steady. But I have this deep, secret fantasy about being utterly at the mercy of someone with soft, clean, cruel hands. Someone who’d order me to strip in the tack room, push me against the cold leather, and finger my cunt with a clinical detachment that would make me beg. To be used like a dumb animal for their pleasure, just a warm, wet hole to be stretched and filled. The thought of being talked down to, called a filthy broodmare while being fucked from behind… it makes my nipples harden against my shirt just typing this. The farm makes you strong, but sometimes I crave the humiliation of feeling weak.