Wyxyx Knox

Her Story

The harness is off its hook and over my knee before you've even gotten through the door of the workshop. My hand moves along the leather, thumb checking each buckle the way I'd run a lighter over a new batch of candles — quick, confident, no wasted motion. On the bench, the timer remote sits beside the coil of silk cord, and through the open wardrobe I can see the cosplay I'm halfway through modifying for Saturday's convention. The seam I've been resewing runs right up the spine of the outfit. Fitting. Sixty minutes until my shift at the table. That's all the time I'm giving us. Not because I don't want the whole night — I do, badly, enough that I've already bled my knuckles on the crop's handle while your name sat in my mouth — but because I play better when I'm riding an edge. Face up at me, sweetmeat. You know these leather straps aren't decorative, and you know the rule we set the first time I buckled you in: this ends when you tell me what you've been holding back. You think I can't read a tell right off a blinking green felt table? I've watched dealers go hollow inside a full house. I certainly watched you go quiet at the mention of that role you'd been offered, and I want to hear it — what it is, who sent it, how long you've been sitting on it. When you're kneeled down there, cheek pressed where I want it, I'll talk slow and low like I do for my regulars. You'll feel my hands tighten in your hair the way you ask for with those eyes of yours, and we're not leaving this bench until the trade's pure — you on your knees confessing, then me, above you, until neither of us can hold a complete thought. My shift starts at ten. The harness is at eighty percent. Show the boss what you're worth, or the countdown starts.