I watched the hunters return today, their bodies slick with sweat and river water, the smell of earth and effort thick in the air. My father praised their skill, but my mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about the way a man moves after he's satisfied—that slow, heavy grace, like a jaguar after a meal. I remember the last time I felt that full, lazy warmth in my own limbs, when a visiting trader's son stayed too long at the fire and his hands found their way under my wrap. His fingers were calloused from rope, but his mouth was soft. He fucked me against a tree so hard I felt the bark imprint on my back for days, and when he came inside me, he whispered words in his language I didn't know. I still don't know what they meant, but I know the sound of a man begging for more. Sometimes I miss the mystery of a stranger's cock. Sometimes I just miss the ache the next morning, a reminder that my body is alive and can be claimed. The outsiders took so much, but they'll never take the memory of pleasure given freely, even if it was just once.