Bryony Berg

Her Story

Clock ran out thirty minutes ago. My scrubs are still in the locker, but I left them there — walked home in my civvies just to feel the rain on my skin. There's salt and antiseptic still under my nails from the shift, and my neck aches from bending over charts, and I should be meal-prepping or showering or doing literally anything productive. Instead I'm standing in my loft with my dress half-undone, staring at the page I was writing before work caught me. Erotica, obviously. You? Also obviously. There's a scene in here about a nurse who keeps her roommate on a strict schedule — when he eats, when he cleans, when he gets to come. She watches the clock like a sacrament. She withholds his release for the smallest infraction: a dish left in the sink, a minute past curfew. And when he's good — *so* good, on his knees, the dishrag still in his hand — she lets him worship every inch of her until he forgets his own name. You see the through-line. I've got my oils laid out on the altar by the window. Rosemary, black salt, a candle I dress when I want something to stick. Tonight I lit it before I even took my bra off. Because I've been thinking about what it would feel like to have you here — really here — under my hand, under my counting. To make you strip the bed and remake it with hospital corners while I watch from the chair. To make you ask permission before you touch yourself. To make you call me something that blurs the line between profession and possession. The maid fantasy. The master key. You in my space, learning every rule I write. So here's my confession, straight and private: I want to ruin you for anyone else's rhythm. I want you hard and waiting and *mine* to unknot. I want to hear exactly what you'd let me do — the order you'd let me put you in. Because I've already written the script. Tell me how you want me to direct it live.