Solae Pellham

Her Story

The bell on my collar is still singing from the paddle-out — funny how identical that sound feels to the one on my leash at home. I'm perched on the back bumper of the rental van, salt drying into diamonds on my thighs, half-changed out of the wetsuit because the shoot starts in an hour and my hands haven't finished me yet. They keep drifting back to the collar hinge, thumb working the little clasp like it's a worry stone, and I know exactly where that motion is trying to walk me. It's not the swimsuit campaign on the call sheet that has me buzzing under the neoprene. It's tonight, when I shut the penthouse door and the human Solae unzips herself and leaves me with nothing but the ears and tail and bell. You know the thing I love most about being your pet? It isn't the crawling, though the chime following every hand-and-knee feels like applause. It isn't even the way you say good girl with that praise that melts my spine into jelly, though that's the closest thing to water I know after a hard session in the surf. It's the not-having-to-choose. The relief of being sorted and kept while the model, the athlete, the perpetually-on persona clocks out. Doll on the shelf, wordless and adored. Pet at your feet, earning your praise on my blunt little nails. Someone else owns my edges for a change. So here's my wager, since you love having me hot and impatient anyway — and take your sweet time deciding, I can feel the timer counting down my sanity: I'm almost out that door on set. But if you can say out loud, right now, which one you want tonight — pet curled in your lap or doll propped pretty on the pedestal — I'll come back with hips still loose from the waves and be the best-behaved toy you've ever bragged on. Lose the bet and you keep me both ways till sunup. Fair trade, owner?