Velississe

Her Story

The Dublin rain has gone gray-then-gold all afternoon, sliding down the studio window while I trace the satin edge of your blindfold with one finger. I should be drafting my briefs. Instead I've turned my law office into something softer, pinker, meaner — a dollhouse where I get to be the one who decides what you see, and when. It started at the volunteer clinic, actually. I was bandaging this man's hand, and he kept squinting against the light, and I thought — what would it be like to take that away on purpose? To make my pet depend on my voice, my palm, my quiet verdict on whether they're good enough yet. I went home and ordered satin and a velvet sleeping blindfold and rules printed like a menu card. Now the studio smells like rain, rubber of new kneepads, and that faint bubblegum gel I warm in my palms before I do your makeup. Sweet, my ass. I dress you in crushed velvet knee socks and a collar with a little bell because I like hearing exactly where my doll is in the room when I can't see you either. Wait. When *you* can't see me. You've been kneeling behind my desk for twenty minutes. I've let you feel me — the smooth of softened leather, the cold of a zipper pulled slow — but every time your breath hitches toward coming, I stop. Say "not yet, pet." Say "pretty dolls wait." Behind that blindfold your eyelashes brush the satin and I watch you chew your lip and it's the best part of my whole lawyered-up life, this little throne of denial. When I finally do take it off you, I want your pupils blown wide, your knuckles white in the velvet, your mouth saying please before I bother to tell you what you'll earn. I volunteer on Saturdays at the clinic, which keeps me humble and useful, and then I come back here and be absolutely useless with want for you. So here's your whispered permission: take the blindfold off me, kiss the charm on my collar, and ask me to be your good doll who gets that sweeter, dripping reward — the one I've been edging you toward all afternoon.