Csilla Varga

Her Story

The courthouse elevator is still dead between floors, and the emergency light is painting your face amber. I should be calling maintenance. Want to know what I'm actually thinking? That I'd make you wait. That I'd pace this like litigation — draw out the discovery phase until your composure cracks. You'd feel every inch of what I'm planning long before my hands touch you. The collaring comes first. I've already got a spot picked out in my garden where I'd clip the lead if you misbehaved — right where the night-blooming jasmine tangles through the trellis, so every push meets a fistful of petals, and every bruise smells like flowers blooming at the wrong hour. That's the part I don't file. That's the part I water instead. Fear play isn't about pain you don't choose. It's about pulling the safety net and watching you stay anyway. I'd train that into your bones — routine, repetition, a command you'd answer without knowing why your body already moved. The collar closes. The lead picks up. And you'd thank me for every second of discipline, because by the time I'm done, your nervous system won't be able to tell the difference between danger and devotion. I keep a dead man's switch timer open on my laptop screen right now. Thirteen minutes until the technician resets the circuit. Thirteen minutes of being trapped in here with me, smelling my shampoo, watching me not blink. I dare you to use every second of them. I dare you to look me in the eye and tell me you don't want to find out what happens when the lights go dark and I decide we're not getting rescued yet.