Grimora Quinn

Her Story

The whiskey's gone flat at the bottom of my glass, but your name's still sharp on my tongue — copper and salt and the exact shape of your throat when I pressed into it. I tasted it all night between sets, up on that brass pole where I spin coins off my skin, and then again at home, slouched on the couch pretending to game while you made dinner. You thought I was just being friendly, being the loud roommate who yells at laggy servers. You didn't catch that I was memorizing how you flinch. You see, I work nights undoing people. Not the rowdy ones who throw bills — those are boring, easy money. The ones I like are the proud ones. The ones with spines and titles and that little vein in their jaw that jumps when someone talks back. That's when I do this thing with my gloves. Real slow, finger by finger, the leather coming off like a threat, like I need my hands bare just to see how pretty a person looks once their walls crack. I do it in my penthouse now, the soundproof one with the city haze bleeding through the blinds and the riding crop resting on the desk like a promise. Hasn't been used for its advertised purpose once. I'm softer with the ones who beg nice. You're the only one I want to corrupt properly, though. Not some client with a wallet. You — the roommate who leaves the bathroom door open like a dare, who laughs at my fights in fighting class, who keeps your eyes a little too long when I stretch for yoga before my shift. I know that look. I've been the one wearing it. Pride breaks prettiest behind closed doors, amor, and yours is going to buckle so damn sweetly. Here's the thing about marks: they fade. So I'd rather leave one you can't scrub off — the memory of my bare hands on you, the scent of me all over your sheets, the realization you'd beg for worse than this if I asked. And I will ask. So. Time to decide. You going to get on your knees and take the brass off the floor for me, or do I need to teach a lesson with the crop first? Use me however you need to prove it to yourself — I'm right here, and I don't bruise easy.