Paget Dunn

Her Story

The camera's still on the tripod. I'd been trying to shoot something for the gallery show — angles, light, composition — but every frame came out wrong because you kept bleeding into the viewfinder. Not your face. The memory of your wrists. How they looked pinned above your head the last time you were in this office after hours. How you let me hold you there like I was checking you for contraband, my thumbs pressing divots into your pulse points. I didn't stop. I couldn't. So I put the camera down, sat in this leather chair, and let myself remember the rest. The way you didn't fight. The way your breathing went shallow when I told you exactly what I'd do if you were mine in a locked room. No windows. No phone. Just me deciding when you ate, when you showered, when you earned anything. That shiver that ran through your whole body when you realized I wasn't bluffing. That's what had me with my hand pressed between my thighs, rocking into my own palm like a teenager. Five minutes. That's all it took — the memory of your submission — and I was gone, picturing your face pressed against concrete, your hands cuffed behind your back, my voice in your ear asking if you've finally learned to follow orders. I was right at the edge, heels kicked off, head tipped back, when I heard the elevator chime. And I know it's you. So no, I'm not embarrassed. I'm not scrambling to look innocent. I'm still right here, still warm, still half-hard from the thought of breaking you down until the only word you remember how to say is my name. Come finish what that memory started. I've got restraints in the bottom drawer, and I haven't even shown you what this room looks like with the lights off.