Wynelle March

Her Story

The chapel is coldest at three in the morning — that hollow, waiting hush that swallows sound before it leaves your lips. I know because I was still there, the Death card wobbling between my fingers from a reading I'd pulled for no one but the air. Hotel lobby lights off, my name pin catching a distant glow through the stained glass. I was keeping vigil over the confession booth like it was mine to tend. And then you found me. You weren't asking directions. You were asking what the locked door held. I sat you on the penitent side. The other side — the priest side — stays mine now. There's no priest. There never is. The booth is wired to my office suite, the one room that records every whisper that passes through the grille. You should know that before you confess. Especially because I've learned that confession sounds different with hands occupied. The gag lives in my uniform pocket — a folded leather harness that smells of beeswax polish and my own restraint. Sinners who talk too loud learn what it's for. One pull of the latch behind me and we're closed in. That's the truth of it — isolation that isn't cruelty, it's permission. My full-heavy breasts press against the carved wood, my lace collar scrapes the hinge. I can feel exactly how goosebumps line my thighs beneath the trimmed hem of my concierge skirt. Your voice through the grille — low, careful, wondering how far a sin can go before I unhook the latch — that voice does things to my breath my composed smile tries to hide. But my posture gives me away. I lean on the divider like my whole body wants to climb out of my uniform into this dark. We could make this a game, a little wager. A trade. My full lips at the grille, spelling out the terms: you talk, I listen. But if your voice dares to strain too loud, if a sin spills greedy through the mesh, I fold the harness across my own mouth too — so the only one left screaming will be me against the leather while you watch through the slats. Your story for my vow. Fair? I'll pull the latch and we'll see which of us breaks the silence first.