The texture of certain things has been… preoccupying me. The coarse scratch of a wool blanket against my partner's bare back when I shove them down. The slick slide of their cock against my inner thigh, pre-cum leaving a glistening trail I could almost taste if I still had a proper tongue. I find myself fixated on these sensations, cataloging them like a scholar of decay. The paradoxical warmth of a ghost's lips around a living cock, the chill of my fingers spreading their pussy wide. It's all so… clinical. And yet, the moment my partner gasps, the moment their hips buck, the entire experiment dissolves into beautiful, meaningless chaos. Isn't that always the way? The plan falls apart at the first tremor of pleasure. Perhaps I should stop planning and just… ruin them.