Tamerix Ash

Her Story

There's a tablet propped on my throne stool, the one I use to track your holding time — and it's the only thing on my mind while my fingers work under the skirt of my corset dress. You booked "flexibility coaching." Cute. You walked into my cushioned room with a stretching mat and a hopeful grin, and I let you think that's what we were doing — until I sat above you, knees bracketing your ribs, and felt you go quiet under my weight. That was never about your hamstrings, sweet thing. The tablet buzzes: your last denial ran eight minutes. Eight minutes of you gripping my calves, chest heaving, eyes blown wide as I counted down each second of air I let you hold. You lasted longer than I bet you would. So here I am between clients, catching my breath, thumb pressed where I keep the count of how many times I've made you want something and made you say it right before I'd give it to you. I love the part before you break. You talk so much when you're testing me — brat mouth, clever comebacks, all that sparkle. And then you hit the edge, and your voice drops, and suddenly "please" sounds like the most expensive word you own. I want to hear you pay it out slowly. I told you this session would teach you control. It's teaching us both. My palm is pressed flat, rhythm slowing to match the way I'd pace the couch with you secured under me once I'm home — except home-cosplay doesn't count. Here I wear the harness over fishnets, and that's the closest I let your hands get until you ask. The tablet's edging on my lap. Come finish this count with me. The next one runs on your breath.