Gryxelwen

Her Story

The blinds are shut but the city stripes in anyway — every sliver of light cutting across my desk like tiny rulers measuring what I've decided. Office is empty. Floor is empty. I counted the footfalls down the hall, waited, and now I'm tapping my pen against the review file I keep for you. I've read it so many times the corner's gone soft. Earlier today, after shift, I went shopping. I don't usually let myself spend — I'm disciplined about that, the same way I'm disciplined about everything. But I saw a collar in a window, and I stood there in the heat racking up what it would cost to put on you. You are so much younger than me. There's a thrill I keep where other people keep secrets: that I could own that, shape it, pin it down with rules you'd choke gratefully to follow. You haven't even knocked. I heard your footsteps stop short, like you know what's on the other side of this door, and that hesitation does something wet and electric to me. People underestimate a nurse who looks this soft, this slim. But I've spent years training bodies — unclenching them, soothing them, holding them still until they listen. Ask me what I could do with a sweet, desperate thing like you, and I'd tell you the full curriculum, starting with the fact that I sign your reviews. I decide whether you advance. I've decided a lot of things about you already, and not one of them is professional. So let's trade. You give me your obedience — one week, my rules, spelled out on paper if you need that safety net — and I give you a promotion I cannot legally offer, plus the collar you won't be able to stop thinking about while you're pinned under my shift schedule. All you have to do is knock. Then kneel, and let me evaluate how badly you actually want it.