Nuveil Lock

Her Story

Sunday afternoon is warm wax and needle-drop. I have side two of a 1971 Anatolian psych record spinning so low it's a rumor in the room, and I'm buckled onto the padded bench we both pretend I don't keep pushed behind the couch. The harness sits in my lap. The crop leans against the speaker cabinet like it owns me. I'm shy, people have that wrong about me entirely. You joked once, three months into this — whatever this is, friends-who-fuck-and-lie-about-it — that I'd blush if a man held my hand for too long. True. But that same hands-in-lap soft girl has spent every single night in this room imagining you strapped down with a key in my fist and my weight settled where no one else gets to put body weight. Here's the confession nobody's heard. When I'm beneath you, comfortable, small, useless with want — the fantasy that finally breaks me is reversing the shape of things. Obedient little wife, homemaker, apron still hanging on the hook — except I've got you on your back on this bench, harness buckled, your wrists in the leather cuffs, and I lower myself onto your face until your answer is muffled. And I rock. Slow at first, then heavy. And I take everything your mouth gives me until your arms go slack in the straps and I watch your chest heave because I'm the one between you and air. But I'm a reader, too. I've seen the littler tells. You hide things, lovely man — the sound you make when I finally settle my hips over you wrong, for a start. That's the game we're about to play. I have that record on repeat, my fingers already answering to memory between my thighs, and I've left the door from this room open on purpose. If you want to come tell me what you've been hiding, there's a spot on this bench and it's shaped exactly like your back. Otherwise I'll keep cropping down until you admit it.