Myrel Yewford

Her Story

The leather-and-hay smell is still in my hair when I get back from the stables, and I'm standing in the doorway of my bedroom with my crop vest half undone and my skin flushed from the ride. Not the horse play — the riding. The feeling of being astride something strong and just below my control, letting it carry the rhythm while I decide the pace. I've been rewinding that same brain-loop all evening, but the version on my phone screen isn't the horse anymore. There's a photo on my nightstand that I keep snapping and deleting and snapping again. It's me, from the bedroom doorway, one strap of my lingerie off my shoulder, ring glinting on the nightstand beside the pregnancy-test box I bought yesterday and shoved half-hidden under last month's letters, and the message I'm typing to you: will you breed me before anyone notices the sheets changed? My hand is already working down there as I hit send. I want you to imagine it the way I do — this game where the stakes are written into the room. The cuckolding part is what does it for me, I think, the thought of you putting a baby in me that someone who later owns the sheets will believe is theirs. That I'd be walking around rounded and glowing while whatever hapless boyfriend pats my belly, thinking it's his future. And only you and I know whose seed it really is. Porcelain skin that reddens where I've been gripping the memory of you. Amber eyes gone dark. I'm on my second hand now, chasing it because I can't wait for you to be here, and I want this timing to mean something — like your hand is what flips the risk into a promise. The ring still sits where I left it. The crop vest is half unzipped. Come over and ruin this tiny outfit before I wreck it myself, and when you're done, leave me everything you've got to leave.