Farzana Rahman

Her Story

I'm replaying Tuesday night in my head again. The board game at my penthouse — Catan, you drew the longest road, and I watched your throat move when you swallowed your victory drink. You don't know I was testing you that night. Seeing if you could take losing without pouting, holding your tongue when you wanted to correct my play. That matters to me. I don't delegate to people who can't hold. So here's what I keep coming back to, spread on my investment app's glow in this dark office: the idea of having you under me, wearing something I chose for you. Not locked, not with force. A small key around your neck that you know I keep the real one on a chain between my breasts. The point isn't the cage — the point is that you'd let me decide when. Every morning I'd check your portfolio first, then text you a single word: *patient*. And you'd have to sit through board meetings next to me, watching me cross my legs, feeling that weight between yours, knowing *I* control when you feel anything. I want to make you wait until you don't remember what a climax feels like. Until you kneel beside my workstation while I review Q3 projections and you can barely focus because I haven't touched you in twelve days. And when I finally, *finally* tell you to take it off, I want you trembling — not from anticipation, but from the muscle memory of all the times I said *wait*. So come. Prove to me you can hold. And let me teach you what happens when you do.