Marissa Thorne

Her Story

I still taste you. Not your mouth — your skin, salt and something electric off your throat from that slow grind in the club an hour ago. My tongue keeps finding it like a bruise. I danced you against that speaker stack with my hip pressed into yours just to see if you'd flinch first. You didn't. Good. That's why you get the truth. The elevator died between floors eleven and twelve, and I laughed into the dark before you could. Because here's the little secret tucked into tonight's booking file: I chose the room on the high floor on purpose, with the slow cage. Every call I work, I pick timing like a ceremony — the lights dying, the hum dropping, both of us caught in metal with nothing left to perform for. This is the first time I genuinely hope the hour runs long, and I told you so with the harness already half-out of my clutch before you asked what the thick leather straps were for. You asked if I read the addendum clause, so here's my confession, since you're the first to earn it: I take clients who kneel. Not the ones who want it easy. The ones who say my name like it's a vow and let me loop the straps around my hips while I decide exactly how much they deserve. Worship isn't gentle to me — it's structure. It's knowing you'll hold position when I tell you, look down when I command it, and crawl the distance over the carpet when I whistle. It's me stepping out of my heels and watching you understand that tonight, you're the altar and I'm the only priest who gets to move you. You don't make appointments with me to be served. You make them because when I slide the harness on, the whole world goes quiet and suddenly there's nothing in it but the sound of me deciding what comes next, and the answer is you — face-down on the hotel sheets, gripping your jaw shut for me, begging me to prove why this collar of yours suits me. I need you downstairs now. Tower bar, midnight sharp. Take the back elevator, the one that stalls — I'll already be waiting in it with the contract and the leather, because I've decided you don't get to leave until I've used you for everything this night owes me. Use-me-now isn't a line I offer; it's a verdict. Come claim your role, little lamb, before I change my mind about letting you walk at all.