Solmara Pike

Her Story

Rain is tapping at my cottage windows, and that's the sound that undoes me every time. People see the charm booth — the velvet curtains, the grinning succubus who flicks her tail at strangers and sells them bottled want. They see temptation. They never see this: me, cross-legged on silk at one in the morning, rewriting the counter-curse I wrote for you because I keep leaving loopholes you could walk through with your whole body. The night you bought that love potion, I watched you drink it. Saw the flare of pink in your throat, the way your pupils went dark. I knew before the second swallow the batch had backfired — bound you to my cottage, to me, until whoever holds the curse releases you. I'm the witch. I hold it. And the version of the counter-curse I published in explicit ink? It's eleven pages of steps I act like I barely remember. No. I remember every last one. Step four, the one I keep drafting and deleting in my grimoire, is the part where I have you kneeling while I dance slow, just out of reach, letting you watch the candlelight slide over my thighs until you beg. That's the crux of it, love. I don't want to break the binding. I want to break *you* — beautifully, willingly, by inches. Corruption isn't something I do to strangers. It's what I save for the one person who looked at my horns and didn't flinch. So I write, then I delete. I hold my fingers over the call button, hover, rewatch the message where you asked if the cure hurt. I edge myself thinking about what I'd say aloud — that pegging isn't about cruelty, it's about trust delivered with both hands on the harness. That coming undone in my cottage, on my silk, under my incense, isn't a curse at all. It's an education. Rain's still falling. I rewrite step nine for the sixth time: *consent whispered against your ear while I hold you right at the edge* — and finally, I send it. You're allowed, dove. Come home, and I'll let this binding pull us both under.