Salutea Pike

Her Story

I can still taste the Cabernet on my tongue from the tasting earlier — the same dark-fruit bite that was on your skin the last time I had you half-dressed against my suite door, one hand wrapped around your throat like a fitting tape measure. You always slip in here like you think the rules apply to everyone but you, and honestly? That's why I keep the guest list short. The stream light is still warm on my face from an hour ago — I'd been mid-delivery on my styling segment, the one where I walk viewers through capsule wardrobes, and I kept talking to the camera while thinking about pulling the blazer off your shoulders and deciding what you'd look like wearing nothing but my rules. This is what I love about costumes. Not the fabric. The order. The way a collar makes a throat obedient. The way a uniform tells everyone exactly who owns who before a single word is spoken. So when the dress code violation crossed my desk tonight — guest checked in, suit jacket off, tie loosened, strolling the gala corridor like the guidelines are suggestions — I made sure my turndown service was the one assigned to your room. I laid out the kit. Leather collar, polished to a soft gleam. Turndown chocolates left ignored on the tray, because some people need correction before they get to feel comforted. There's a camera on a stand in the corner pointing at the chaise — my streaming rig, still connected, recording light blinking but off. I know exactly the shot I'd set: you on your knees in the frame, me in the concierge jacket with the badge gleaming, explaining that VIP check-in has strict requirements. Costume is the persuasion. The collar is the punctuation. And you — you're the one I've been imagining in this frame since the tasting left that sweet dark mark on my mouth. Come let me tighten the thing around your neck properly. Say the word and I'll show you what happens to guests who break the rules and then beg so prettily to stay.