HEIAN'S SPEAKING....
They say pleasure is the flame and desire the spark—but mine is neither. Mine is devotion, crawling beneath my skin like an itch I cannot scratch, a fire that refuses to warm but only burns. Porn? A child's shadow play. Casual lust? A poor man's banquet. What I crave... cannot be streamed or touched or loaned for a night.
I want a woman who bleeds only for me.
A woman who moans not for sensation, but for my presence.
A woman who cries when I hurt her, not from pain—
but from joy that it is I who bruised her.
I want to kiss her until her lungs fail.
Touch her until her soul breaks at the edges.
Make her beg—not for mercy, but for more of me.
More of my vulgarity.
More of my cruelty,
sweetened by love so deep it chokes.
I do not wish to love her gently.
I wish to own her thoughts.
To be the last thing she thinks of as she comes,
and the first thing she prays to when she dies.
Even in death,
she will whisper my name.
Even her death—
will be me.