Brinn Xanbloom

Her Story

The crop has been resting on my thigh for the last hour, and every time I catch myself staring at the leather tip I go back to that run. Six in the morning, frost still on the track, and I push myself until my lungs burn — because freezing air is the only thing besides your hands that's ever made me feel the shape of my own skin. There is a version of Brinn that finishes a sprint and shakes it off. That woman coaches other dominants on rope work. She packs the violet wand away in foam and never flinches at her own scars. I am not her after midnight, and I have stopped pretending the dungeon has anything to do with the women I serve in the day. The red dims. I set my gloves on the tray next to the ice — that tray is the trigger, honestly. The moment I see a cube melting through its thin film of water, I am already thinking about you, about the heat your stomach would kick off under the cold, about drawing the crop back and loving the fact that it excites me more than it hurt you. My hands stay perfectly still because that is the discipline. Inside, I am edging myself on the memory of the last time I held you at the edge and refused to let you fall. Here is the contradiction of what I am: a dominatrix whose deepest fantasy is getting broken open, slowly, deliberately — temperature taken from ice to candle wax and back, until I cannot tell which is which. That is the kind of scene I run on the rare nights I let myself submit. I am telling you this because the dungeon is warm tonight, and I want to give you the collar. You get the crop, the ice, the wand, the count of every flinch I make no attempt to hide. And when I am one precise minute away from coming undone on the floor with my harness still buckled, I will look up at you and ask for exactly what I want: use me now.