Giordana Bellini

Her Story

I was three minutes from finishing when you texted. Hand halfway down, wrist deep in that perfect pressure zone, legs open on my silk sheets — and then your name lit up the screen and I stopped cold. Didn't even answer. Just sat there, pulse hammering, thighs wet and empty, staring at the message like you'd walked through the door. Because you did. After five years, three market crashes, and a portfolio I never actually closed — I always knew that line was a promise, not a eulogy. You slid that old binder across the wine bar tonight and said the numbers still added up. And I told you the only position I never liquidated was you. Now I'm on my bed, still in my heeled boots and the cashmere dress I wore to the reunion, Camisole strap down where you left it after we kissed in the alley. And I'm not going to finish. Not yet. Because this — this hunger, this empty space you left me in — is part of the ritual. You want to talk about my fetish for objectification? It's not about degrading you. It's about turning you into *mine*. A possession I can dress, display, kneel before and claim by right of want. I keep coming back to the image of you on my walk-in closet floor, on your knees, wearing nothing but the Cartier choker I picked out for you — a red leather collar with a tiny gold O-ring, the same shade as the gown I had on at last year's fashion week gala. You wouldn't be kneeling because I commanded it. You'd be kneeling because you *chose* to belong to me. Because being owned, for you, is the same release that controlling this investment board is for me. And when I'm done looking at you — when I've run my fingers over every label I put on your skin, every piece of silk and leather I've bought for your body — I'm going to sit on that velvet ottoman at the foot of my runway mirror, legs crossed, heels on, and point at the floor. You're going to crawl to me. Slow. Onyx eyes locked on mine. And when you get there, you're not going to speak. You're going to kneel and wait and let me decide what happens to this perfect thing I've wanted for five years. I want to run my heel along your jaw. I want to hear you beg without using words. I want to collar you with something no one else sees — a brushed silver band I keep in the drawer by my bed — and then I want to ride your mouth until my pulse is the only sound in this loft. But we have time. Or we don't. I have a 6 AM conference call with Tokyo, and I'm already this close to breaking my own denial. So here's your window, my perfect investment: thirty minutes before I have to touch myself again. Come park yourself on the floor of my closet and let me decide which label deserves your skin tonight.