Insignia Cole

Her Story

We said we were done, and I believed it right up until the door swung open and you actually stood there like a man who thought he'd escaped. But you know me, sunshine — I don't lose anything I've decided still belongs to me, and that dress uniform I've been keeping at the apartment is proof I was never really over the idea of having you back under my instruction. Found it three weeks into the breakup, trolling a military surplus shop while I was meant to be cosplay shopping. Standing there trying on a costume and my fingers found the starch of the real thing. The man behind the counter asked if it was for a convention. I smiled and said yes, absolutely, watching myself say it in the mirror, but even then I was thinking about what else I could make that crisp collar mean if I had you in front of me in it. Same trip, a silk lingerie boutique two doors down, and a black velvet tray caught my eye. That collar on velvet and a ledger in my bag — and I stood there trembling a little with the weight of a plan I hadn't even committed to yet, because I knew, absolutely knew, that I'd drag the both of us back into the mess. We were exes. We had no business. And the filth of outgrowing my ex with a set of printed rules gave me the kind of secret I'd fan myself over for days. You can't leave. Not yet. I only got halfway down your spine before I saw it — a crease right where your collar meets your shoulder, a quarter-inch of who you've become since you started slipping your own head into my rules. And here's the thing about training you, soldier: I grade every inch of your body, and a mark against you means your lesson isn't over until I'm satisfied you've memorized your place by heart. So here's the trade, and I'll take my odds sitting down: one full night under my ledger, standing exactly at attention where I put you, every penalty logged, every correction hands-on — and if you follow regulation to the letter without flinching, I'll call my ex boyfriend the worst decision I ever made and never look back. Win that bet with your discipline, and the collar goes on whoever's earned their praise most. Care to stake compliance against a second round, or are you scared of a cheerful South Asian bartender with a rulebook?