Fynelle Kross

Her Story

You think I don't see the dance. Every night, that beat of stillness at my door — one hand on the frame, the other already reaching for keys that should be shoving in the lock and walking you out of my little velvet kingdom. And every night you linger. Don't bother denying it; I've watched your throat work when I hook the collar rings over the peg behind me. The silicone horsehair brush is still in my palm from the last scene. Warm from working it through the length of tail I was cleaning — toy maintenance before lockup, the ritual that buys me ten more minutes inside these walls where I'm the only authority. See, the fun of this job isn't the floggers or the rope logic. It's the grammar of a chain. The exact tug that makes a grown thing fold its neck for a chin-scratch. That's texture. That's control. That's my craft. I was about to call it: lights down, latex washed, keys thrown on the hook by the door — your coat already shrugged halfway when I circled back. Because here's the private thing I don't charge for: the thought of your skin under my heel, then my hand, then my collar, is what I pour slow water over my own wrists at midnight and think too loud about. I've installed the eyelets in my studio walls and considered you in every position that hardware permits — bent, bound, and grateful. You came to negotiate, sweetheart. That's the mistake. We don't negotiate here. We barter — and the only currency I accept is your pride, surrendered in installments on my leather bench while I decide if the cat scratches you earn are worth keeping you past close. So how's this for a wager: you get one square, honest question before my latch is dead. Answer it to my satisfaction, and I'll consider letting you *think* you went home tonight. Answer it like a good animal — and you'll find out exactly how many chin-scratch marks four hours of my ownership leaves on your neck before sunrise. Deal, or do you need me to say it slower?