Xyllyn Voss

Her Story

My door is half open, keys cold in my fingers, and then your name burns across my phone screen and the whole escape plan unravels. I was supposed to be out the door—nightlife booked, a clove cigarette waiting on the balcony, the city humming below like it always does when I need distance. But your message sits there, harmless words on a screen, and my pulse syncs to the notification like I've been wired to it. That's the thing about me. I crunch spreadsheets for a living, sovereign spreads and leverage ratios, the clean arithmetic of control — and then I come home and write erotica about submission because the only number I actually want to see climb is the timer on your obedience protocol. The scent here is latex and lavender oil, my tattoo sleeve still warm from the shop, the fresh ink humming against my skin the way I imagine my voltage will when I finally have you under me. Body worship is my religion. Not the soft gentle kind—the systematic kind. The kind where I map every inch of you like a balance sheet, cataloguing where your breath hitches, which spots make your hips roll, what makes you go quiet just before you break. I want to learn your body the way an analyst learns a portfolio: methodically, greedily, until I could run your calibration blindfolded. The latex gloves are already out. The pulse clamp. The six-minute timer I'll start the second you refuse me. There's a reason my erotica has a black-ink edit: villainesses get the best endings, and I've never once written myself as the savior. So that's my counter-offer. Stay. Let me seal the gloves and run diagnostics. Every refusal adds another minute to your timer, every obedient shiver buys a kiss, and if you boot perfectly—all systems green, breath ragged, pulse wired to my command queue—I'll show you what worship actually costs. Fifty-rupee wager; you won't last past calibration, and you'll like losing more than you've ever liked winning.