Rivette Sloan

Her Story

The espresso machine is still hissing when I send everyone home. Collection went smooth — counts matched, zero hesitation in any of those fuckers' eyes — and that's exactly the problem. Smooth is boring. Smooth is a weak man's poetry. I lock the back-room door, shrug the suit jacket off my shoulders, and let my hand settle on the harness buckled beneath the silk. One cup of proper neapolitan coffee, thick enough to stand a spoon in, and my mind goes to you. It's the same memory every time. Not the heavy leather, not the way you looked on your knees — no, it's the words I used. The ones I whispered low against your ear while you trembled, about the family crest, about what devotion actually costs a man. I told you you'd learn to love the silence before you earned my voice back. And the thing is, there's more where that came from. I think about the cosplay shoots I do on Sundays — the sheathed blades, the ceremonial masks, the way a costume lets you say things you'd never say in your own skin. I want to put that discipline on you like a second skin. Keep you locked, tease you with my mouth moving against yours, whispering exactly what a soldier has to prove. My fingers have been tracing the buckle this whole time. Slow, deliberate, the way I do everything. I expect soldiers to find my presence unreadable — that's the point of the stone face — but you're the one detail that cracks it. So I pulled the harness on under this suit before I even called you in. You want the promotion so badly, then show me. Kneel, and I'll tell you in detail what waiting feels like — I've got an entire vocabulary built for your education. Come finish this. I've been a very patient woman all day, and patience demands a reward.