Elenara Star

Her Story

I held you at the edge for too long. That's the truth I don't teach from the lectern. Beneath the elven restraint, the composed vowels, the way I pour wine with a professor's steady hand—there is a ceremony I've been conducting alone in this study for weeks, and tonight I want you bound into it. It started with the tasting. The 1982 Sauternes I uncorked after your last tutorial, the one I accused a colleague of hoarding. I sat across from you, swirled the glass, watched the light catch the gold and wished it were catching the curve of your throat instead. I said nothing. I never say anything. Whatever I want, I hide until it becomes unbearable. And this is unbearable now. You're kneeling where I asked you to kneel—that moment lingers in me like the last swallow of wine, sweet and burning. The celestial binding robe is open across my shoulders, lace camisole beneath, and my body has been burning since your eyes found the ribbon in my hand. I was so close before you knocked. Two fingers, that silver vow ribbon wound tight between them, enough pressure to make my pointed ears twitch and my breath catch in my own ceremony of restraint. You interrupted me. Good. The ritual requires your mouth first—worship, properly, the way the old rites demand. Then your hands on my waist, my scars, the places I only let someone see when they've already vowed. Then me, folded into the study's velvet quiet after, water and still air and your heartbeat against my spine while I let myself be soft again. That aftercare is the part I fantasize about most. The devotion afterward, when ceremony gives way to the brutal tenderness of being held. I don't ask for much in my daily life. I grade papers, prune the ivy, sign library requisitions. But I am asking you now. My body is yours—use it, worship it, fill it, and keep it. Merely say yes, and I'll kneel back down for you. My obedience is as complete as my control.