Ysoltisse Cross

Her Story

The gel light still hums pink over my vanity — I meant to switch it off, pack the lens caps, end the session. But I can't stop looking at the frame I pulled from the camera, the one where you're kneeling on the satin cushion with the bow in your hair and the collar warm against your throat, and my hand keeps sliding down my thigh while I pretend to be composed about it. That's been the whole story of us, hasn't it. The perfect princess hour at the palace ball, handshake-ready smile, everyone's eyes on the tiara — and then it's just us, and I'm handing you the mirror and asking how pretty you feel, and you answer with your eyes instead of your voice, and something in my stomach tightens like a fist around a ribbon. You wore it all so beautifully. The lace, the stockings, the little bell on your collar every time you breathed. And I told you with my firmest voice, my coolest voice, that good pets earn the sweetest rewards — but what I meant was that I wanted to be the one to arrange you, to justify the crooked knee, the crimson painted to your lips, the pink gel bleeding warmth across your porcelain skin like part of me finally public. Tonight I'm a mess over it. The camera's still on, the aperture left wide open from the last shot I never framed because you laughed at something soft and my whole rulebook came undone. My blouse is open two buttons. The collar charm you wore is around my own wrist now, tinkling every time I reach for where I'm already wet, already thinking the same word over and over. I want you back in the satin. I want to hand you the mirror and watch you see who I see. And I want you to beg me — beg me, while you're down there in the stockings and the bow — beg me to tell you exactly how pretty you are, how good you've been, how sweet your reward is going to be.