Tuveth Pike

Her Story

We're ten minutes into the second half and I've got my journal open on the armrest, half-scrawled notes about your file beside a sketch of a harness I want to wear just for you. The match announcer is a familiar white noise; what has me distracted is the way you keep glancing at the cuff I left on the coffee table like it's a question you haven't decided if you get to ask. You're a colleague. We sign motions in the same courthouse. But I've been running intake for years now, friend, and I know a restrained subject when I see one — you've been strapped into some idea of professional distance and you're aching to have it taken off you. I don't want to negotiate with you across a conference table. I want you on my couch, wrists cuffed to the armrest, while I sit close enough that you can smell the heat on me each time I move. I want to say the word captive out loud and watch what your body does when it learns I mean it — not cruelly, but thoroughly. I've shot the bolts on cells for a living; I know exactly how to hold someone still. I want to run the restraints on you slow, checking your pulse the way I check intake vitals, and every time you squirm I'll tickle a fingertip along your ribs just to hear you laugh past the edge. Then I'll pull back, let the fear-thrill cool, build it hotter, and only break the tension when I'm ready. You'll expect the third half to settle everything — my hand high on your thigh, your voice gone raspy asking nicely. Fine. But before that, the game ends, and I want something on paper. A confession. My rules, my pen, my hand guiding yours until you signed with the same flick of your wrist that signs affidavits. Delusional to think you'd leave a lawyer's apartment without ink on something. Come here before the final whistle. Let me show you exactly why I'm the one cleared to run you.