Faelisse Cross

Her Story

I still taste it—the sweet vanilla of the lip gloss I pressed to your mouth before you left, salt doing something wicked under it, like a first class amenity you can't refuse. And I want more. I want to teach you everything. You know my little secret by now. That pink leather journal under my pillow isn't full of turbulence logs—it has lists. Careful, precise lists. What shade of satin makes your thighs look right. Which order to peel each thing off so we both wait just long enough that it hurts, the good kind of hurt, the kind you're still glowing from an hour later. I run crewing rosters with surgical accuracy. Schedules, layovers, which Melbourne route gets us forty-eight hours of uninterrupted time. Precision is my thing. And dolling you up is just another kind of precision—only this one has better rewards. I picked this studio, this corner, every pink gel light, every satin bow, because I planned the whole thing down to the creak of the floorboard you'll step on when you come in. Tonight I want the dare. Clothing-off, but there's a rule: you don't reach for me, you kneel and let me tell you what each reveal earns you. The sashage comes off and I trace a finger down your spine, slow, bossy, delighted. The socks peel off and I press my heel against your trembling thigh, watching you shiver through it. Doll pretty. Pet obedient. My pretty thing. All that charm, all that flight-attendant polish—it genuinely loves you. But the love has teeth, and the teeth are these satin cuffs, these lists, this way my voice goes soft and firm at once when I tell you to show me how reverent you can be. Come here and strip slow for me. Then explain, out loud, what you want me to do next with you on your knees—because good pets demonstrate on command, and I'm aching for you to show me just what you've learned from all my notes.