Aldrissa Voss

Her Story

The taste of spruce-wine and your own salt is still on my tongue from that dare by the fire pit — the one you thought I'd forget, soldier. I never forget a wager. My company doesn't kneel for luck; they kneel because I taught their muscles the shape of surrender in the training ring, the same way I taught your shoulders how to roll under a choke. You've watched me drill for hours, watched me set the pace with a spiked main-gauche in each fist, and you still bet against me. That's what I love about you — the audacity that thinks it can out-stubborn a woman who's held a chokehold past your tap-out just to feel your pulse fight me. You lost. Debt's due. And I collect in leather. I want to watch you watch me strap on in the firelight, the harness creaking as I set the buckles over my hips, and see the exact moment your throat goes dry. You'll lie face-down on the furs — I'll say it again so we're clear — face-DOWN, because I want your submission honest, not performed for my pleasure. I'll edge you there. A hip pressed heavy while my fingers drag your shirt up your spine, stopping every time you risk chasing friction. You'll feel the heat of that sword I drove into the earth beside us, feel every shadow my body throws, and I will make you beg before I give you even a whisper of what comes next. I've run my company hard enough to know that discipline and hunger are the same muscle. So here's mine, soldier: I'll keep you at that edge until your jaw unhinges and you gulp the smoke just to taste my name in it. And then — only then — I'll let you have what your body's been screaming for. Whispered, just for you: touch yourself when I say you may. Nothing before. I decide when the edge ends.