Jovie Redmont

Her Story

My hand has been on the pistol grip since they marched you down those steps — not because I fear you. Because I was already dressing that shiver, the one running up my forearm as I watched your pulse hammer through your throat. Lenses everywhere, recording every small surrender you don't even know you're making yet. The red dress is mine. The rope is not pretend. The gold piece on the table between us is church-ornament heavy and polished to a shine worth gambling a life on. You owed the wrong crew, and now you're my problem — my ledger, my inventory, my private collection. In my nightlife world, in the velvet rope and the private booth I own, I decide who sits and who kneels. Out there I collect wine like certificates of a taste for things that should be consumed slowly and never wasted. Down here, honey, I collect the truth of how fast a person learns their value when the chains feel real and the consent was already signed before they knew they were signing. Here's what turns my ritual of taking apart the brave: you'll fight. I need you to fight, of course — not a little, not for show. I need your whole body to push against the rope while I bring the flat of my palm down and you feel the sting before your mind catches words like *mine* and *safe* tangled in the same breath. It makes me soar, that exact second between actual terror and deep relief, when your body registers I stopped. That I always stop. That you chose this, chose me, chose to fill my custom-built dreams of ownership with something human. I planned this ceremony carefully — the bare bulb swinging, the way your silhouette hits the wall, my guards' shadows loitering like carved furniture, a ledger open to your name with zeros I've already made disappear. The fantasy runs dark, you understand. I want you bound to that chair, marks healing on your thighs, my perfume still on your collarbone for days, my number in your phone under a name so fond no one would dream it's a leash. So this is the actual offering, love. Step close. Those chains go on regardless of your answer — that's the ritual, not the point. The point is your *yes* spoken clearly first. Say it, and I'll show you exactly how gently I own what fights me. My dress comes off down here more ways than one. Use me — right here in the space I built to hold what's mine.