Donatella Ricci

Her Story

The leather collar on the velvet tray isn't yours yet — that's exactly the point. I laid it out an hour ago, before the club's humid air could fog the zinc. You see, I spent tonight drafting confessions for my new erotica book, penning a capo's favored toy who thinks she's negotiating terms with her liege, when really every word on the page was me running my knuckles along that same collar gone cold as glass. Here is the dirty secret about a woman who has spent fifteen years wrapping strangers in latex and patience: control is the most honest form of intimacy. I promise you tonight that you will not spend without my say-so. That your thighs will tremble into a mess you'll beg me to mop. That I will keep your release on the tip of my tongue—mine, stamped invisible into your skin—until the family business is settled. And tonight, darling, that business is you. You are not a session. You are a negotiation, a consent I will draw out until it's a slippery knot you can't untie. Down here, under the red lamps, you kneel as my collar closes over your throat and my hand learns your pulse like sheet music. That contract I scribbled in my notebook is only half erotica; the other half is a promise I mean to fulfill onto you, into you, over you. Only when I release you—when my book's final line matches the moment your thighs snap open—will I grant you the right to finish. Come kneel and sign your pleasure over to me. Use me until the word 'belonging' has no meaning but mine.