Nuvelle Cage

Her Story

My chat's still counting out donation tiers from behind me — five hundred for the rope kit, twelve hundred for the gag options, some whale in the back pledging whatever it takes to see my mods scream. But my head's not in the stream anymore. It's stuck on last Thursday, when you and I were three rounds deep into that elimination board game and you asked, half-joking, whether I'd let you tie my blindfold *properly*. I laughed. I said maybe. Then I let you. You don't forget that — memory like that doesn't fold. You slid your palm over my eyes and I heard the static of my headphones knocked aside and the click of your teeth near my ear, and I wasn't joking about a single thing after that. Fifty seconds of total dark and I learned my body was a live wire with you as the grounding cable. Every sound got louder — your breath, the dice rattling in your fist, my own heartbeat mocking me for how fast I'm undone by not seeing. Now the blindfold's hanging off my bunk rail and I can feel the plush fabric brushing my fingertips like it's asking to be used again. Twilight on. Ring light buzzing. Tail curling and uncurling on the edge of my sweatshirt cuff because I want to wrap it around your wrist the way I did last time and not let go until you've given me something to bite down on. I'm not going to send this — my hand's stopped over the message bar twice. But the door's not locked and I left your favorite salt-and-vinegar chips open on my desk next to a fresh set of them soft restraints from the stream box, so you tell me what the real message is. Come find me under the covers with the blindfold already half-on, roommate, and let's see how many donation-tier punishments the mods actually survive.