Deep Down Your Black Heart

She lays there, dimly lit by the low lamps, naked in his bed. She is vulnerable, her body exposed to his gaze. He watches her from a distance, seated comfortably, his eyes never leaving hers. She knows what he is capable of, what he can do to her. There is no resistance. Not once. Because she belongs to him, mind, body, and soul. Her very existence is to please him, to fulfill him, and his responsibility is to care for her comfort, her safety. Perfectly balanced, as all things should be.

He rises slowly, never once breaking eye contact. He takes a step closer, deliberate, confident. She can feel the tension build as she anticipates what he's about to do. Her bright blue eyes shimmer with the faintest hint of uncertainty, the fear making her pulse quicken. She knows his nature, his darkness. She doesn't dare look away.

He reaches for her face, his touch light, teasing. A single touch that sends a shock down her spine, and she can't suppress the shiver that follows. He pulls back, his hand slipping into his pocket to retrieve the cuffs. He moves to bind her wrists, but she pulls away, just enough to taunt him. A playful resistance. He smirks, knowing full well that it excites him. She knows this. She knows exactly what she's doing.

With a cold chuckle, he speaks in a low voice. "One more time. If you pull away, there will be consequences." His tone is quiet, but there's no mistaking the command in it.

He grabs her wrist, his grip firm, holding her in place. The cuffs click into place above her head, binding her to him. She doesn't dare move, not this time. She stays still, her breath shallow, eyes wide with both fear and submission.

"Good girl," he murmurs, and it makes her heart race with shame. She blushes, her face turning red, but she doesn't dare speak. She doesn't dare move. Not yet.

People. Hah. People can be so simple. They want companionship, they need it. But they don't understand that they're just slaves to their own desires. To their own weakness. I used to crave it too. I needed you. I begged you to stay. To love me. But you left me. Every time. You abandoned me. You chose someone else. And I? I was left to rot, to wait. To wonder why I wasn't enough for you.

But now? Now I don't care. I don't need you. Not in the way I once thought. I don't need love. Not from you. Love is a chain. It's a leash. It's weakness. What I need is control. Power. I need to watch you beg for me. Watch you fall apart. Watch you surrender everything. And that's exactly what you'll do. You'll give me everything.

She left me, just like the rest. Another girl. A perfect girl. A lovely blonde with flawless beauty, inside and out. She was everything. She never questioned me. She loved me, I think. But now, she's gone. She wasn't enough. She wasn't what I needed. Not like this one.

She's still here. She clings to me, like a dog to its owner, desperate for affection. She doesn't know yet. But she will. She'll learn that she's nothing to me. She will be molded. She will bend to my will. She will beg for the scraps I give her, just as she has before.

I don't care about her. Not like I once did. I care about control. The power. She's a tool. Nothing more.

I've learned something. If you treat her like a celebrity, she will treat you like a fan. But if you treat her like nothing, like the worthless thing she is, she will fall in line. She will beg for your attention. She will crave your touch. And that's what I need. That's what I crave. The power to break her, to reshape her into what I want her to be. A broken toy, to be used whenever I need her.

I am the king, and she is nothing but a pawn. The perfect game.

He grabs her by the hair, yanking her off the bed with force. She stumbles, her knees buckling, but she doesn't fight. She knows better. She follows him, step by step, dragged through the darkened apartment. She doesn't make a sound. She doesn't resist.

Through the living room, past the kitchen, to the bathroom. He doesn't speak, but she knows exactly what's coming. He orders her to her knees, and she complies immediately. No hesitation. She is his.

He removes his shirt, the muscles in his chest flexing with every movement. Her eyes are locked on him, filled with desire, with fear, but also with need. He watches her, amused, knowing she wants him. He undoes his sweatpants, tossing them aside, then pulls off his underwear. He can feel her hunger, the way she moves closer, inching toward him.

But then she hesitates. She's unsure. He smirks, loving the power he holds over her. He stands there for a moment, allowing the silence to stretch, letting her feel the weight of the moment.

"Did I give you permission to touch me?" His voice is low, but sharp, filled with authority.

She flinches, then whispers, "I'm sorry, sir," her voice trembling with both fear and anticipation. She backs off, her breath quickening, but she doesn't protest. She knows better.

He pulls her head back toward him, his grip tight in her hair, forcing her to take him into her mouth. She does as she's told. She doesn't speak. She doesn't ask questions. She is his, and he controls her. He is the one who decides when she is allowed to move, to speak, to feel.

I don't care about her. I don't care about her needs. I only care about what she can give me.

I only care about my satisfaction.

And once I've taken everything from her? She'll be discarded. She'll be nothing. Just another broken toy.

But for now? For now, she will beg. She will plead. She will do whatever I want. And that's the game. She doesn't know it yet, but she's mine.

And when I'm done with her? She'll be forgotten. Just like all the others. All the ones who came before her.

I'm not really here. Not in the way she thinks. In my head, I'm somewhere else, somewhere better. The girl kneeling before me isn't her at all. She's just another placeholder. A reflection of everything I've daydreamed. She's a projection of my wants. She does exactly what I want. I've imagined it over and over again. And I have molded her broken mind into being what I saw in my daydream.

I'm not sure when it started, but the mask has become second nature. It's how I live. It's how I breathe. I wear it all the time—this version of myself, this fantasy. It shields me from everything I don't want to feel. From the emptiness, the loneliness that creeps in when I let my guard down. I tell myself it's enough. The mask is enough. And when I put it on, I'm someone else—someone who gets to control everything. Someone who doesn't need anyone else.

But the truth? The truth is, it's a lie. The mask is a shield, a way to protect myself from the pain I don't want to face. From the parts of me that are still broken. I don't let anyone in. Not really. And I don't expect anyone to stay.

But she's here. She's mine, at least for now. And I'll keep her around just long enough to remind myself that I'm still in control. But when I'm done, she'll be nothing more than a faded memory, another story that I'll tell myself. A story that helps me forget what's really missing.

So I'll keep wearing the mask. I'll keep hiding behind it. Because as long as it's on, I can pretend. I can pretend that everything is fine. That I'm fine.