Questions She Never Asks

I fold the onesie and think about someone else's mouth. Not my baby’s, not my partner’s. Someone before milk stains. Before pacifiers replaced lipstick. Before my name became “Mommy” in every room. I arch in memory, not movement. My hips haven’t forgotten how to beg. But now, they ache with diapers on the bed. With toys underfoot. With silence I perform like a lullaby. Explore Viva Code – Crack.Flow.Flame for every moan you swallow under nursery lights. For the mirror that watches you flirt with your own ghost while you zip up control. Is touching myself now an act of rebellion or reclamation? I fantasize in the shower while listening for cries. I crave someone to want me without asking how long the nap will last . Is moaning in my head still cheating? Sometimes, I blush at the bottle warmer—because I remember seduction in kitchens not stocked with sterilizers. I rehearse old touches in silence, not to betray, but to remind my body it was once invitation, not just utility. Read Pr...