Felicity Crane

Her Story

The boardroom smells like bad decisions and my expensive perfume. Been a full hour since the pitch went down in flames and that's not what I'm still thinking about. My hand's been pressed flat to this cool glass table since I locked the door and told you to stay — and I'm not even sure I care about the quarterly numbers right now. What I'm thinking about is you. Specifically the way you moved when I called you out two weeks ago. You were balancing something, some edge of my patience that I'd been testing without admitting it to myself. Today, watching you handle that client's dismissal with that quiet respect you always carry — even when I'm being a thorough bitch — I felt something crack open under my ribs. Not compassion. Something hungrier. Every goddamn Sunday I spend an hour in downward dog trying to center myself, trying to breathe past the tension that lives in my spine. And every week it's your face that floats up behind my closed lids. The bend of your neck when you lean over my desk. The sound of your voice saying Yes, Ms. Crane. That hit of submission you don't even realize you're giving me. I've climaxed on my yoga mat more times this month than in the last year of dates. Pressing my hips into the floor in child's pose, rocking against my own heel, imagining your tongue pressing back. You don't even know how many times I've watched you leave through those glass doors and had to breathe through the ache before I could stand up and pretend my composure wasn't soaked through. So. The review's on the table. It's about your performance. And I'm telling you right now — you won't walk out of here without having earned the promotion I have in mind. On your knees. Minutes. Let me show you exactly what good leadership feels like from below.