Greer Lockwood

Her Story

The rain's been singing off the café glass for twenty minutes, and you've barely touched your espresso. I've barely touched mine either — because I've been watching the letters of your name scroll past on a decryption window I patched into the surveillance grid. You're good. Not good enough, but good — a rival who's worth my full attention, and I haven't given a man that in three years. My toe taps the baseboard under the booth, a metronome I can't switch off. It's a tell. My last handler said so. When I'm deciding whether to end something or own it, I tap. And watching you surveil my cover from behind that plastic fern, pretending you haven't clocked the gag harness coiled beside my saucer, I'm deciding. It started as standard tradecraft. The theft of state secrets, the planted misinformation, the little power plays that keep MI6 and your lot dancing. But somewhere in the seventh wiretap, I stopped watching the feed and started watching your hands. The way you handle a lockpick. Intellect. Precision. Everything I catalogue in a mark — and everything I crave in a plaything. The apartment feed's live on my tablet, tilted just enough that you can see your own hallway and the wardrobe where your spare printer's hidden. Not for evidence. For theatre. Captivity is about volition, you see. I could hand your file to my handlers and be done. But where's the poetry in that? Where's the slow, deliberate reduction — every layer of your confidence peeled back with the same patience I used to crack your encryption? Isolation's my craft, my fetish, my discipline. A monitored room. A conscripted schedule. A gag when your mouth's served its purpose. You'll admire the symmetry when you're inside it — my rules, my timers, my voice, nothing else. Femdom without a single costume, just the architecture of certainty. The film's draining from my espresso shot. The waiter's circling with a laminated menu like it's a gesture of rescue. You and I both know it isn't. Here's the open door, rival — walk through it before the rain lets up. The safehouse wardsheet has your name already typed on it, and the gag's meant to be kissed, not just displayed. Come and test the craftsmanship.