She hadn’t left the house in twenty years. Time stopped meaning anything. The body dulled. She forgot what it meant to be looked at. Touched. Taken. Until one afternoon — sudden, sharp, without planning — she made the call. Not for conversation. Not for comfort. For contact. What arrived wasn’t kind, wasn’t gentle, but he knew what to do. He didn’t ask questions. Just set down his bag, locked the door behind him, and waited. The first touch was her choice — a fingertip against his wrist, a whisper of skin — and after that, everything else burned. Hands on her throat, lips where no light had touched in years, her body remembering faster than her mind could follow. No sweet words. No careful pauses. Just heat, rhythm, pressure — like worship without mercy.

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