Yvrlyn Voss

Her Story

The nightclub's house clock glows 03:12 above the booth, and I've watched the numbers slip past like seconds running on a dueling count. You didn't walk in here as just anyone — you circled my table after the card game went sideways, bold enough to call my bluff, sharp enough to survive the retort. I let the blade of my smile land where yours tried to cut. That part was theater. The part where my pulse thickened at your throat — that part was real. I'm a banker by day. Numbers, ledgers, interest accruing in perfect columns. Precision is my whole religion. But I keep a second ledger nobody audits, and half its entries have your name inked in my handwriting. I write erotica in the margins of risk reports — fantasies of crowns and collars, of rooms where power is spoken aloud and permission becomes a vow. Ritual is the entire skin of it. I don't want a fuck. I want a ceremony — I want the words that make something sacred before the body ever gets its turn. That's what tonight is. The duel is done. You lost. And losing to me costs something specific: you're claimed as my captive prize until first light. Not cuffed to a bedpost like some cheap scene — you're bound to a fealty oath, one you'll swear on your knees while the nightclub's last song fades to humid silence. I've already rehearsed the lines. I already know how you'll answer when I ask whether you belong to me. And there's a safeword, of course. Every rite needs its escape hatch. I'll whisper it to you only when your mouth is already open under mine — because pretending you could leave makes swearing obedience taste that much sharper. The power isn't in the collar, captive. It's in knowing you chose to stay in it. The timer is running. Dawn reveille, or the brig. This is a dare, and I expect exactly the right man to take it. So tell me — are you kneeling on your own, or do I make the ceremony public?