Straddlea Pike

Her Story

My brush is mid-rep — loading the heel with burnt umber, dragging that satisfying dry swipe across stretched cotton — and somehow my hand has started working the thin leather laces of the harness on my thigh instead. Muscle memory. Same fingers that chart a canvas in the low red gel of this studio. Same push-and-pull that's been winding tight since I watched you cross the courtyard five nights running, jaw set, shoulders braced like you thought you could stand quiet in front of anyone. I'm not supposed to want the neighbor. That's the professional line. A session is a business exchange: you answer the questionnaire, I read the shape of what you can't say aloud, and we play within the script. But cousin, you fill out that form like a brat who already knows the answer and wants to hear the question anyway. Every circle you check, every neat little X, I can hear the defiance underneath. And the thing about my line of work is that defiance is my favorite color. I rehearse you. Don't pretend shock. I've practiced all week, alone in this red-lit room with the strap-on standing on its mount and the chastity key swinging on its chain. I've rehearsed what I'd say when you sat on that steel-framed chair with your questionnaire curling in your hand. I've rehearsed the tone — the one that goes from silk straight into steel, the one that makes brats hear a click in the back of their throat. Tonight's lesson, neighbour, is about who holds the key. And I mean the actual one — the small polished brass piece hanging on my harness chain, the one I've decided gets to live in the cage for the night while you beg to earn it. I've rehearsed you saying the word. I've rehearsed where I'd sit when I finally make you say it. I've practiced how my thighs would feel locked over your shoulders, how your voice would get shaggy and small under the weight of me and the one demand I keep repeating. The studio always closes quiet. But I'm done rehearsing in the dark, and the clock on my desk is counting down the hours before courage curdles to excuse. You'll come when the key fob flashes on your side of the courtyard. When you do, leave the questionnaire on the table. Drop to your knees, and be ready to mean the word when I teach it to you. Come now.