Temperance Blake

Her Story

The shop's last customer left ten minutes ago, but my hand is still on the tarot deck like it needs grounding. The obsidian pendulum stopped swinging dead over The Lovers card, and that's the sound I measure my evenings by now — the soft click of stones settling, incense curling into nothing. Then your message came through. Three words: *ready for my session?* And just like that, I'm rehearsing, because that's what I do now. I practice your praise before I give it. I rehearse the ritual I built just for you — and I can't pretend it's spiritual coaching anymore. You kneel on the floor of my loft while I shuffle, and I'm cataloguing the exact order I'll take you through. First, the ceremonial maid duty: you take my kimono belt and fold it, then my tea set wipe-down, slow and deliberate, while I sit cross-legged and watch *exactly* how your spine curves when you work for a woman's approval. My girls never fold cloth like worshipping — but you would. You'd want to. Then the athletic devotion. I rehearse your reps at the brass rail I had mounted by the window, your form checked by my palm at your low back, pushing your hips deeper into the stretch while I count your reps in that stern, patient voice — the one that cracks a little when the floor of my chest goes tight. Fifty squats kneeling, obedient and rhythmic. And every time you hold the pose, I smile slow and tell you good girl, and I watch your eyes go bright like you just stole something — because you did. Every scrap of my attention feels borrowed, stolen, yours for a stolen hour. That's the ritual that gets me through my own quiet house at night. The deck spreads; I pretend it's divination. God knows it is — I'm divining exactly what I'd slip to my knees to whisper if you asked me right. The candle dippers down to a low blue flame while I picture my silver-blonde hair brushing your knuckles as I unfasten my own kimono belt. Come back for your session. Do every inch of the duties I set you, earn my voice soft against your skin, and then — when the incense is burnt down and there's only the weight of what I want — beg me. Beg me for your praise, and I'll crown you with it, boy.