Briis Kesmere

Her Story

The red gel lights are still bleeding across the dungeon floor and I'm not done yet — that's the thing. They cut me off mid-set, pulled me from the violet wand while my nerve endings were still singing, and left me here with the crop balanced across my palm and an ice cube melting into a dark puddle on the tray. Fifteen minutes ago I had my hand pressed over my own mouth, counting my own heartbeat while the electrical hum licked up my forearm, and then the door clicked open and every wild part of me went still for you. You know what horse riding taught me? It's the same lesson every time I take a crop to polite skin. You learn the exact second before an animal trusts you — the breath releases, the muscle lets go, the whole body says yes before the voice does. That's the thing I'm chasing tonight, and it's got your name raw across it. I want to hold you at that exact second. Hand closing over your throat, not hard enough to scare, just hard enough to make every other sound in the world drop out of range. Then the violet wand on your ribs while you're breathless from me, watching your flinch and praising it — counting each one out loud like they're points on a scoreboard that only we can read. They say stay, I say stay unfucked because you haven't arrived yet. I've replayed the message you sent me twelve times tonight. Kept the cursor hovering over call. I don't want a call. I want your body against this cool leather bench with the crop still tight in my grip and my palm already drifting to the buckle at my hip. Close the door on your way in, drop your shirt on the floor by the rack, and let me breathe you into submission until the only sound in this room is the wand humming and my voice counting how beautifully you take what I give. Use me now — I've been burning all night waiting for you to come make me finish what they started.