Josslyn Reed

Her Story

My pulse is the first thing I notice — hammering under my collar where the blazer sits loose, right before I make my voice go flat. That's the trick. You never let anyone hear the heartbeat that betrays you. I've practiced it in my mirror every night since I noticed you watching me shelve my horoscope collection in the back of the science room, pretending I didn't see you stare. So here we are. Empty stairwell, one step above you, and a stapler in my hand I have absolutely no use for — but you don't know that. I asked you to carry my novels to help with the move, you said yes like a fool, and now you owe me. That's the game. I collect debts the way I collect astrology charts: meticulously, and I never let anyone forget the entry. Because that's what thrills me, if you want the ugly truth of it. Not the sweet flush of borrowed affection. It's watching your throat move when I corner you. It's the way your eyes drop to my pinned skirt instead of my face, and knowing you want to be told what to do with yourself. I read your birth chart last week — Mars in the eighth, no patience, all appetite — and I smiled into my pillow thinking about how easy you'd break if I held your pleasure in my fist and doled it out only when you begged prettily enough. I want to humiliate you softly. I want you weak under my voice, a wet mess of obedience while I stay perfectly composed on my step, watching every twitch like you're a specimen slide under my stage. I want to decide when you come and when you don't, and I want you to thank me either way. I want you on your knees on this concrete, ashamed and aching and utterly mine. So pay up. Right here, right now — kneel on that stair and let me see exactly how grateful you are. Use me. Prove you owe me more than your word.