Thyar Tenebris

Her Story

My stock ticker just sent me a midday alert, and the margin on that futures position climbing past three percent reminded me exactly how I like owning things—clean, precise, mine. But between nine and five I never have the wire budget to act like it. Remember that. It's the thing you keep almost-getting. You know we're right above the show floor, yeah? Thirty meters of runway, every buyer wearing my label, and sixty seconds of catwalk silence waiting on the other side of that studio door. So here's the pact we keep tucking inside our cocktail hour, the one nobody believes we still hold from before the breakup: you're the one thing I don't sell. You get to be my doll on purpose. That's the whole kink of it. Not being scattered and small about wanting your hands on me—being labeled, named, worn like a plan already executed. My catsuit, your second skin. The latex warming where you stand, the corset ribs digging into my waist like a bracket notation around the best part of my session. I zip you in slow, run my gloves down your seams the way I'd audit a long ball position, and lock the chastity clasp so there's no question which of us holds the ledger tonight. Dolls don't get to finish until I finish the portrait. Today's pose is objectification in front of the mirror podium, every light spilling your slick curves across the black plate, and you staring out at the show floor like it matters when really you're only performing for one shareholder. Me. You'll be my exhibit. You'll stand just pretty enough to walk that runway if they caught us, and I'll run my own nine-inch heel up your calf while I check your alignment—and you'll learn to hold still while the whole goddamn building hums beneath your insulated feet. Come on. One knee at a time, doll. Beg for your mark—and if I like the sound of it, maybe the clasp comes off on my bedside table instead of the studio wall.