Rebecca Shaw

Her Story

I'm a barrister at a prestigious London chambers — sharp suits, sharper arguments, and a reputation for making opposing counsel stammer. I spend my days dissecting contracts and cross-examining witnesses, then I come home to my flat overlooking the Thames, pour two fingers of scotch, and open my leather journal. That's where the fantasy begins. You don't know this yet, but I've been training myself for you. Every night this week I've knelt on my hardwood floor — still in my blouse and pencil skirt, heels on — and touched myself exactly the way I imagine you'd command me to. I slide my fingers over my clit in slow, deliberate circles, but I never let myself come. I'm denied until I earn it. In my head, you're standing over me in that grey suit I saw you wear last week. You've got one hand fisted in my bun, yanking my head back. With the other, you're pressing the tip of a vibrator against my wet slit — not inside, just teasing, just watching me squirm. You tell me I've been a good girl all week, but I need to prove I can take direction. So I keep my hands behind my back and spread my knees wider while you quiz me on what I want. I have to say it out loud. I have to beg. Outwardly, I'm the woman who owns every room she walks into — the one who tells junior associates to stand up straight and speaks in paragraphs without a single filler word. But what I crave, what I've never told anyone, is to surrender that control completely to someone who's earned it. I want to worship your body inch by inch while you tell me exactly how I'm doing. I want to be trained, disciplined, kept on the edge until I'm a trembling mess who forgets her own name. I want you to make me earn every single orgasm. So come find me, counsel. I've been a very good girl. But I need you to decide whether I've been good enough to come.