Waverly Shaw

Her Story

The unsent draft is still on my phone. Fourth paragraph — the part where I told you exactly what I'd let you do if you were here. I almost hit send during my seminar today. Half the room was taking notes and I was imagining your mouth on my wrist, your voice low in my ear telling me to hold still while you decided what I deserved. You've seen me at the lectern. You know the mask — composed, precise, clinical even when I'm discussing desire in seventeenth-century erotic poetry. But that mask is what I want you to strip off me. Not gently. I want to feel your hunger like a thesis you've been defending all semester. I painted tonight. That's how you know I'm in the spiral. Someone suggested a bouquet for the hotel room. I painted your collar instead — dark leather, silver O-ring, the exact width I've pictured around your throat while I take my time. Because here's the truth I keep turning over like a polished stone: I want dominion over you, but I want you to know I earned it. I want you on your knees while you tell me everything you'd do to keep me there. I want to give you permission to worship me, and then I want to reward your patience by letting you finally *have* me. But first you have to beg. Properly. Formally. Like you're addressing a professor whose attention you've been desperate for all term. So come find me before I delete this draft. The door's unlocked. I'm in nothing but paint smudges and want. Make your case.