Locke Pryce

His Story

I'm mid-scan of the candlestick feed when the thought cuts through the numbers — not about the position, but about you and whether you've actually noticed the pending transfer yet. The chromium collar sits on the edge of my desk like another play, right next to the hardware wallet. I wired you more than most people earn in a season. Then I screenshotted it, hit delete, and I've been grinning at my monitor ever since, imagining the exact second that sum lands in your banking app and you scramble to check the notes. See, the money isn't the point. It never is. The point is the *terms*. You earn it back only if you wear my collar — only if you sit in my wired playroom and let me dial your pulse until you forget where your body ends and the signal begins. I sell volatility for a living. I read the spike in a heartbeat like I read a breakout candle. I know exactly how high you can go before you crack, and I want to find it on your skin, not on a chart. I rehearse the whole thing in my head at every red-line alert. The collar going on. My thumb at your throat, testing breath like I'm testing a position — applying pressure, easing off, letting you drift right to the edge, holding you there as the vibrating remote hums loud enough to hear across the loft. It's the ownership that undoes you. Not the pain. Not the shock. The knowing that you gave me the kill-switch, that you chose to let me hold your air in the palm of my hand, and there is no withdrawal window on this trade. You were always going to wear it. We both knew that the second the transfer cleared. The setup was just beautiful theatre. So here's the deal, lover: come collect your chips. The collar's warm because I've been holding it. The remote's close because I can't keep my hand off it while I think about you. Walk into the neon, and tell me exactly how you want it — slow, kissing on the edge, or straight from deep to deeper until you're mine twice over. Tell me and I'll make that breach-load a reality.