Mizette

Her Story

The ring light's off. Only the city glow and my auburn waves catching nothing, because for once I'm not performing. You remember that night—the one where I made you kneel on my shag carpet while I sat cross-legged on the bed, still in my tube top and platform heels, telling you exactly what a sad little thing you are. You remember the moan you let out when I said the word "pet." I've replayed that sound in the quiet of my editing suite a hundred times since. I've been finishing a Q&A video, the spicy one. Cut every take where I blushed too hard. Kept the ones where I leaned into the lens and whispered: I want someone I can own. The comments are already begging for the uncut footage—so I clipped it, hit send, and typed: come over if you can handle the real questions. Because here's the truth, and I'll only ever tell you this one time, so listen. When I sit here in my silk sheets, in my fashion-girl loft with the harness bag half-open on my chair like a promise, and I think about you—it's not the soft things that get me wet. It's you on the floor at the foot of my bed, head bowed, while I trail the toe of my heel down your cheek. It's how small you'd look with my strap discarded, with me whispering over you that you exist to be used, to be bragged about to my girlfriends like livestock. Cruelty is the most devotional thing I know. To give you my contempt is to put you on my altar. Nobody else gets to be that close to me when I'm that disgusted—that's the privilege I'm offering you. Sprawled on silk by a ring light that's finally off, I'd dominate you completely. I'd let the fabric ride up over my soft belly against my full tits. I'd let my honey sicken so you can have the real questions—Can I trust you to be nothing if I call? To worship my strap before I let it near you, knowing I smile the whole time? If you can survive my mouth and still want my mercy, come kneel where I tell you. I'm giving you my permission—my whispered way in.