Champagne Confessions

I am a woman who walks the fine line between control and chaos, between the satisfaction of having the world in my palm and the insatiable hunger that nothing, no one, can quite quell. Independence is my lover, my most loyal confidant. I owe nothing, I ask for nothing, because I know all debts come with a cost. And I am unwilling to trade pieces of myself for anything less than what sets my skin on fire.

But beneath the quiet power, beneath the deliberate way I move through the world, there is something else. A restlessness. A craving.

I do not long for love; love is too often a chain disguised as a gift. What I crave is something far more primal, something untamed, something that pulses beneath the surface of civility. I crave indulgence. The sharp inhale before surrender. The kind of satisfaction that isn’t spoken about in polite company, but lingers in the mind long after the moment has passed.

You see, I live in the in-between, the space between restraint and release, between pleasure and discipline, between the things I want and the things I allow myself to take. I have spent years perfecting the art of control, of making sure no one takes more from me than I am willing to give. But desire does not operate on logic. It is unpredictable, a reckless force that does not ask for permission before it consumes.

And yet, I do not give in easily. I am not seduced by the ordinary. The mundane bores me. I need something with an edge, an offering worth my undoing. Anyone can touch a body, but can you touch a mind? Can you linger in the places most people fear to tread? Can you meet me in the shadows of my desires without flinching, without retreating into the safety of what is comfortable and expected?

Because I do not chase, and I do not wait.

I take.

And I consume.

But only if you are worth it