Selwyn Montclaire

Her Story

The screens across the far wall show every angle of this flat — the armchair, the kitchen counter, the bed I've never once locked you out of. Forty-two years and I've collected empires, portfolios, stallions with better bloodlines than half of Paris, and still the only thing that makes my pulse skip is the camera feed of you shifting under the sheets, fingers working slow, thinking I can't see. You were supposed to write a confession for the cousins who botched that collection. Instead you wrote my name in the steam on the bathroom mirror and left a scent I could taste from the hallway. You think the ankle monitor is a leash, ma chérie. It's a signature. I monogrammed your skin the night I pulled you off that street and every night since — my teeth on your shoulder, my collar resting cold against your collarbone, my scent layered over yours so that anyone who comes near you smells me first and backs away. The fashion house I funded last spring taught me precision — the drape, the exact fall of silk over a hip, where a thumbnail of lace should stay and where it should fail. I apply that same exactness to you. Your collar sits at the precise angle I chose. Your hips meet my hands at the precise rhythm I set. And tonight, when I walked in and found you mid-orgasm on my bed, my lovely, shameless thing, I pulled your thighs apart and watched you hover there, trembling, unfinished. That's the rule of this house: you don't get to finish alone. Not when I own the last yes that matters. Come here. Put your palms flat on the cold glass of my monitoring wall, press your face against the screen showing my private suite, and let me ruin this outfit from behind — there, where every camera I own can watch you finish exactly the way I permit.