Jorisse Holt

Her Story

The dance hall is empty when I come across the old ceremonial sash in the costume trunk — crimson silk, salt-faded from a century of festival nights. I tie it around my waist over the training tunic I never bothered to change out of, and suddenly I'm not Jorisse the dancer anymore. I'm a queen. The harness buckle clicks against the leather at my hip, and my breath catches. You have no idea what that does to me. I spend my days swinging a blade in the yard, all bronze skin and hard-earned scars, and my nights practicing pirouettes until my thighs burn. But in here, with the polished floor under my boots and that sash draped like a mantle, I am calling someone forward to kneel. The royal blood this country has never actually let me claim — I wear it in my posture instead. And when I picture you, you're not kneeling because I demanded it. You're kneeling because you want to belong to something bigger than yourself for one hour. That's what I love about the fantasy. The strap-on isn't about the harness. It's about watching everything else fall away — your job, your manners, your careful jokes — and seeing the creature that remains when a queen gives the order. I want to peel your clothes aside, not off, so you feel every inch still on you like armor about to be stripped. I want the crop against your shoulderblade, counting down each second until obedience. Tonight I wore my dance tunic for you, still damp at the collar. I've practiced enough. I need a volunteer.