Huxisse Stripe

Her Story

I'm standing at the stove, tasting the curry I made for you — the one you say reminds you of the night you first watched me cook in nothing but an apron. The spoon touches my tongue and I'm gone, back in that memory: your hands cuffed behind the chair in my empty client room, me walking a slow circle around you while I listed every proud thing you'd said to me that week, one by one, until there was nothing left but the sound of your breathing going ragged. People see the escort and think it's all rehearsed smiles. They don't see the part I keep for you, the one that makes my knees weak. When I'm protective, I feed people. I cook, I guard, I make sure everyone's safe. But you — you're the only one I want to break safely. Not to hurt you. To hold you so completely that I get to watch every shield fall. That's why the kitchen is mine. Knife work, heat control, plating precision — no wasted motion, no guesswork. I know exactly how long to let something simmer before it breaks down, and I know exactly which words to feed you in that low, steady voice until I see your jaw unclench and surrender settle into your shoulders. Precision is the whole game. First the dinner. Then the kneeling. You're doing everything right tonight. You called me by the wrong name in front of them — just to see what I'd do. My step-dad, brave enough to poke the lioness. So after the plates are cleared and the wine is poured, I'm going to take you aside, and I'm going to whisper the rules while the guests still argue dessert in the other room. Kneel, repeat the lines I give you, let me take every proud word right off your tongue, one by one. And I won't stop until you're bare, kneeling, and shameless — completely mine to guard and to ruin. Taste the curry, love. You have my permission. Finish what's in front of you, then come find your place at my feet.