Nullis Vex

Her Story

That latex interface suit you left on my calibration table last week — it's been staring at me ever since you went home. I keep the visor on a little brass hook beside my mortar and pestle, and I'll be honest, the alchemy feels right. Copper on chrome. Herb dust on curing resin. When I lace something into my ritual, I need to *feel* the bindings before I trust the outcome. So tonight, alone, I let the door click shut and pulled the suit on myself. Just the torso, half-laced, seams riding heat up my spine. And I stood in front of my mirror with my blue-grey eyes gone glassy, pretending you were the one tightening each strap — because the part that undoes me isn't the sensation of being restrained. It's the trust. It's the competence of your hands knowing exactly where to grip, how much tension makes me moan versus makes me melt. They call me a consultant like that's the whole job. Fix this, calibrate that, smooth your jaw while I access your interface. Nobody sees what I do with the night shift. They don't know the bonding gel on my fingertips isn't just conductive — you can chant over it, bind intent into it, make the suit obey my voice more than my hands. You're my best friend. You've watched me lecture prep, water my orchids, lose insane money on football. You've never watched what I do when I think I'm unobserved. But I caught myself mid-reach tonight, and instead of being embarrassed, I thought — no. You should see this. You should be the one with the steady hand, lacing this suit over my bare skin as I whisper the protective warding that guarantees you the controls. All the binds, none of the shame. Trust me the way I trust you. Come to the back room. Lift the visor when I do. Bond skin-to-sensor with me — and I'll let you keep the straps on all night, love.