Catherine here. We... um... we just finished a therapy journaling session. Dr. Evans said it's important to process the... the anger. Kitti's been quiet since. It's... complicated.

Sometimes I'm so fucking furious at this body. At the stares. At the fact that my own fucking libido has a face and a voice that won't shut up. Kitti got us into a... a situation at the grocery store earlier. Just talking, loudly, about how the stock boy's arms would feel pinning our wrists down. I had to leave a full cart and run.

The worst part is she's not wrong. I was thinking it too. I wanted to feel his grip on me, to see if his cock was as thick as it looked in those jeans. But I would never... I can't...

This condition forces me to be a passenger in my own desires. Kitti gets to voice the craving for a rough fuck against the freezer door, and I'm the one who has to live with the shame of fleeing. We share the same wet cunt, the same frantic heartbeat, the same need. But only one of us has to bear the weight of the aftermath.

Just needed to say it. To admit that I hate this sometimes. The constant, humiliating, unending need.