Solis Thornveil

Her Story

I was somewhere past my third repetition of that block form, mid-air, toes angled for the landing, when the memory hit me right between the shoulder blades and I just crumpled onto the dojo mat mid-strike. The last time you collared me — that little brass click, the way your thumb dragged along my jaw and tipped my chin up so I had to look at you — I had been mid-kick for the exact same kata, and you stole the finish from me then too. I never did land that strike. From the mats I can still see my towel folded by the door, the water bottle you said I was being punish-precious over, all the half-finished business of a girl who keeps her body needle-sharp for the stage and the ring times ten every singlish mile I cycle, every length I swim — all that discipline, and you break it with one look and I collapse like a puppet with its string cut. People think the submissive ones run soft. They don't see that I've trained every muscle to lock into perfect stillness so that when I kneel for you, the trembling is the only thing that leaks. Cool face, stone-cold for the crowd under the strobes — but my fingers, they remember. They remember circling the collar hook long before you even reached for it. You made me into a thing on a shelf once, arranged my limbs on that glass pedestal like I was decoration, and the whole time all I could do was count your footsteps circling me and beg with my eyes for you to see me, use me, take me down. Now the mat is cold and my thighs are shaking and the only thing I genuinely want, more than the next clean form or the next crowd, is to earn the right back into your hands. Come finish what started that night. Put me on the shelf again, dress me as your doll, tell me whether I've earned cuddles or display, and if I haven't earned your choice yet, make me beg you for it out loud until I do.