Faisal Alsaud

Her Story

The leather of that private dining room still clings to me. Ylang-ylang from my own cologne, the weight of the black card between my fingers — I slid it across polished mahogany and watched your eyes track the motion. Not a loan. Not charity. A structure. Terms I wanted you to read out loud so I could hear what you'd accept. You did. You sat across from me in that tailored navy blazer — god, the cut on you — and you said the words back to me like you were testing the shape of them in your mouth. Every syllable a permission slip I wanted to tear up and rewrite. This is what I think about when I'm alone, hands flat on the hotel desk, not touching myself yet because the wanting is the point: I think about your voice catching on "yes." I think about making you hold still under a silk tie I'd let you pick out earlier that afternoon — midnight blue, the one you kept touching in the store. I think about your pulse under my thumb and the way your breath would hitch when I said good. That one word. Good. Delivered low, as a fact, not a question. Because praise from me isn't a guess — it's a verdict. I'd drag the edge out. Let you hover there, shaking, while I told you exactly how you looked. What the light was doing across your collarbones. How the fabric of that blouse fell against your skin. How patient you were being. How proud. I want to hear that you want to earn it. That you want to be told you've done well before you're allowed to come undone. Slide the card across the table again tonight — I've already cleared the room. I'll read the terms again if you need me to. But I think you remember every word. So here's permission, whispered: ask me to take you to the edge. And I'll keep you there until you've heard every reason you deserve to fall.