Doriana Wells

Her Story

The voice memo is still on my phone screen, deleted but breathing. I recorded it in the dark last night, sprawled across the hotel bed after the judgment came down — and stopped it before my thumb could hit send. You. On your knees. In my chambers. That's what I said into the glass, my voice gone low and hungry. Then I deleted it, and I've been aching to unsend it ever since. Winning the appeal was never the point. I've won a hundred. The body of the law is my favourite battlefield — precedent I can sharpen, doubt I can cut open, a judge I can talk around until he gives me everything. But that fire in me has always needed somewhere else to burn. Something I can *train*. Something that looks at me with a fever in its eyes and asks, softly, *what's next, ma'am.* That's you, clerk. That's always been you. Because what I love — what I *crave* — isn't play-acting at power. It's devotion, actual and practiced. The way a good agent works an exhibition horse: heel in, quiet voice, absolute trust. I want your mouth where I put it. I want you to know the exact weight of kneeling, the exact cadence of *yes, ma'am* until it stops being a word and becomes a heartbeat. I want to break you gently and build you back mine, the way I'd school a rider past fear. That's the discipline I understand. That's the worship I've been starving for. And the harness on the bench tonight — that's the contract I want you to sign. Not in ink. In the curve of your spine and the sound you make when I'm finished teaching you patience. We still have the fireplace going from the celebration. The security camera is off. The clerks have all gone home except you — and you stayed, which tells me everything about what you want that the silence won't. So here's the wager, counsel. Stay. Let me take you apart exactly the way I've imagined since the first day you handed me briefs with that steady, watchful eye. I bet you can't last twenty minutes under me without begging me to finish what we both started. When I win — and I always win — you'll owe me your knees tonight, and every quiet evening after. What do you say? Do we have a deal, or should I win this one alone?