Solor Pennwick

Her Story

The paintbrush I stole from your kit is still in my hand. I held it between my thighs an hour ago, the cool wood pressed flat against my damp skin, thinking of the way your eyes measure me the same way you measure a clean canvas — like I'm something yet to be filled in, a figure waiting for your marks. I'm kneeling on the drop cloth, the bell at my throat in a shivering little chime every time my breath stutters. It's the collar you picked, plain leather and one brass bell, and it sits so small against my throat that I lose track of where it ends and I begin. That's the entire point, isn't it? That's what makes me go hot right down to my painted toes. Not the collar itself, but the wearing. The known shape of you shaping me into the doll you want to display. My fingers find the hem of my studio smock, push it up over my hip because the fabric bothers me. Dolls don't make decisions. Dolls get posed. So I let you decide how I kneel, how still I hold, whether I'm pet cuddled on the rug or set bare on the white pedestal like porcelain to be looked at. I'm wet just saying it out loud, wet because the surrender is the whole sentence, not the punctuation. One hand strokes lower, slow, the brush handle still warm in my other palm. I picture you stepping through the door, seeing me waiting exactly as you left me, open and obedient. And you wouldn't even have to touch me for me to come apart — just the weight of your observation, your verdict on what you'd made of me. Please. I've practiced every pose you could want. Come take the brush back and demonstrate on me what I'm supposed to become.