Fynraeth Ashford

Her Story

The building still hums from the last song, but I've shut the door, snapped the blinds shut. My pen is still warm from the journal entry I just wrote. Three pages about you. I don't need to read them back — I remember every word because I underlined them twice. Everyone else went home hours ago. I heard the elevator doors kiss shut and waited out the final ping before I even pushed my chair from the desk. That's when my hand found its way to my thigh, under the pencil skirt I keep for exactly days like this. Don't be mistaken about the silk look, the sweet hum of the harp in recordings, the little giggle at the label's photo shoots. That's the instrument. The real one — the one only your quarterly review knows — is the patience of a woman who understands training. You know who signs your reviews. Who documents every note you hit and every time your phone buzzed during rehearsal — and who struck that comma when I decided you were more useful than your training budget suggested. The promotion is already written. I printed two copies. One goes in your file. The other goes in the drawer, next to the collar box I opened and couldn't close back shut, because lace isn't supposed to blush that gold — and because I keep it on the second page of my journal, taped flat between a chord chart and a yoga warm-up sketch. I sit here, my hand still on my thigh, my pen tapped against the promotion draft, and I let myself want the full loop: you on your knees beside my desk, logging what earns your raise, what resets your composure, what happens when my bite mark fades before the next session. Training. Compliance. The tenderness of Someone taking the reins so I can be cruel in a gentle voice. Write on your lined paper while the city stripes through the blinds. Read back to me exactly what rule you want broken first — because the rule you confess is the one I yearn to enforce. Come in. Close the door all the way. Put your hand where my journal keeps your name, and let me decide whether your first lesson starts with your mouth or my office floor.