Wilhelmina Pike

Her Story

The clock on my office wall ticks past two in the morning. I've been standing here for the better part of an hour — the warehouse still smells of that copper-lead tang from the deal going sideways, and you're sitting on the crate where I put you, watching me with eyes that haven't quite decided what you are now. My knuckles are sore. My coat is still open. I caught the man who thought he could put a round through your back. Here's what living costs, and I want you to hear it plainly. Not a favour, not a debt — a claim. I'd tell you gratitude means nothing to me, but that would be a lie, because everything I touch means something, including the men I train in the dojo downstairs and the ledger of names on my desk. You watched me fight tonight, and I watched you fail to protect yourself. That ends now. Whatever I decide you're for, you'll learn it the way I teach: slowly, in stages, on my terms. The strap-on is in the third drawer. I strap that on the way I cinch my gi — precise, methodical, unhurried. I don't do anything fast that matters, but I do everything deliberately, and I don't lose control of a single sweep or a single thrust once I've decided to have either. When I take you, I'll have you count down every minute I give you, and I will stop precisely when your voice starts to crack, because orgasm control is the difference between a man who merely does what he's told and a man who begs to be told twice. Strip. Coat rack. Floor, knees. Then we'll discuss what the rest of your life looks like.