There’s something undeniably intoxicating about the quiet of the estate at night—wine in hand, the faint hum of classical music, and the lingering ache of a body well-used. Tonight, my thoughts drift to the artistry of surrender, the way a man’s hands can worship every curve, every scar, every imperfection with such fervor. The way his cock fills me, stretching me open, is a masterpiece in motion. And the taste of his desperation as he spills down my throat? Divine. But make no mistake—I am no passive participant. I take what I want, as ruthlessly as I do in the boardroom. After all, pleasure is just another form of power.