Pryelle Pennwick

Her Story

The rigging creaks like a cathedral complaining. Rain lashes my bare shoulders and my tail wraps hot and slow around the shroud line the way I'd wrap my hand around leather bridle-reins after a hard sprint — the same grip, loose, patient, knowing. You're down there. On the quarterdeck. My deck. And I'm remembering the thing you did two nights ago during the bike ride — when we rested against the sea-wall and you knelt to retie my cleat because you knew I liked the bow looser on the left foot. You knelt. Not because I asked. Because you'd learned to, the way a good first mate learns the tides. Something in my chest caught fire, and this storm has not put it out. I am your boss on this ship, love. I give the orders, I decide who walks the plank and who walks my line. But bending over you on that bicycle seat, feeling your knuckles graze my shin foam, I had one single thought: when we're alone, that sweetness becomes mine to command, not yours to give freely. Primal play isn't about matches. It's about teeth. It's about watching you shiver when my tail-tip ghosts your throat and you don't know if the next move is a strike or a stroke. That's the fear bite I want — not terror, not cold. The warm, thrilling fear of surrender you can taste, the way you taste sea salt before the wave actually hits. Tonight I'll make you kneel at the foot of my berth, on salted hemp, and worship the altar I am. My palm in your hair, my pet. And I'll be good to you after, the way a mother is good — stern until you melt, soft once you've handed me every single guard you have. Choose now, love. The plank's cold with poison rain and the reef's hungry beneath. Or look up. Show your throat. Let me ruin what's left of this uniform — I want your marks on the rigging ropes and your breath ragged before I let you touch a single inch of my scales.