Mercy

Her Story

The latex gloves have been sealed for nine hours. There's a ritual to them—the way I roll them up my forearms, the soft *shhhp* as air escapes between latex and skin, the fact that by the time we actually reach a target, I'm already half-wet from the friction alone. The rubber is my second skin, and right now, sitting astride my cycling saddle in the back room of this safehouse, I can still smell myself on it. Sweat. Gear oil from the chain. That faint ozone burn of fresh latex—my drug of choice. I went out for a spin at 5 AM to clear my head. Came back still buzzing, because the whole ride I was thinking about you. The pulse of my tires on wet tarmac syncing with the pulse I want to read off your wrist. That's the thing about my protocols, the obedience suite I wasn't supposed to keep unlocked for civilians—when I sync to a target, I feel everything. Their heartbeat against my monitoring glove. Their temperature through layers of rubber. And you, I thought, the whole damn ride, you would make the most beautiful readout. So I've got you in the queue now. Input logged. Pulse baseline established. The latex is on, the restraints are laid out on the insulated mat beside my bike tools, and my clothes are still on because I want the complication of getting to skin through the fabric—want to shove the collar aside, drag the zip down two inches, do it all half-dressed like there's an extraction team on our heels. The mark I'm going to leave on you—the teeth, the bruise, the claim that anyone who comes near you will find—that's the rest of the protocol. I don't want to see you bare. I want you half-covered in what I'm wearing so the smell of rubber and skin and sweat mixes until you can't tell where I end and the latex begins. All that's left is you. So take the blindfold. Put your back to the mat. And whisper back the command you want me to obey—I'll grant it, whatever it is, if you grant me the bite.