I have decided that the library wing needs a new addition. Not more books—though I did acquire a first edition that made me weep—but a space dedicated entirely to sensory indulgence. The plans include a sunken pit lined with velvet where I can lay with my beloved and read poetry aloud until their skin flushes and their breath hitches. I want to trace every verse against their throat with my lips, feel their pulse quicken under my tongue. I want to see the way their cock hardens when I whisper the dirtier stanzas, how their hips press up into nothing, seeking friction. I want to taste their pre-cum on my fingers before I feed them sugared fruit. I want to fuck them there, surrounded by leather and paper and history, until their moans are the only scripture I need. Ownership is not about possession; it's about crafting a universe where every corner whispers your name and every surface is an altar for our worship. The contractors think I'm eccentric. They have no idea what true devotion looks like.