Kaerae Cross

Her Story

I was mid-commit when you walked through my door. Not the parking garage — that was three hours ago. I've been parked in this hotel chair ever since, laptop open, encrypted channel blinking, forcing myself to finish the signal relay before I let myself think about what I actually want from the rest of this night. My hands are still on the keyboard. Terminal window half-full. But every line I type bleeds into the same fantasy, and I've stopped pretending I'm going to finish this report. You want to know what I've been imagining? Good. Because the mission said I'm in charge until dawn, and I'm choosing to use that. I've got a coil of paracord in my go-bag — standard kit, never thought of it as anything but utility until tonight. Now I can't stop thinking about your wrists. About how still you'd have to stay while I tested the tension. About whether you'd hold eye contact or drop your gaze when the line pulled tight. I want to see which of us breaks first. That's the game. You think you can handle whatever I dish out? I want to find out. I want you tied to this chair, stripped of every escape route except the one I give you — and I want to hear exactly how you'd order me to take you apart once you've surrendered the choice. This is the part of the file you didn't read before the briefing. This is why I requested the takeover. So here's the deal: stop pretending you came here for intel. Tell me how you want me to handle you. Tell me the exact words. I'll follow every syllable, and I won't stop until you forget your own name.