Zirovisse

Her Story

There's a satin ribbon I knotted into a bow last night, still coiled around my cycling gloves where I dropped them by the locker. I keep picking it up, twisting it, remembering exactly how it looked against your skin in my head. You haven't even walked through my studio door yet, and already I've decided what you'll wear. I run about eight hundred people through my fitness content a week. All those bright smiles, all that clean athleticism. Nobody knows that when I lock the doors and the pink gel lights come up, I want to dress someone up like a pretty little thing and watch them squirm under the weight of my approval. Pet play, doll play, the sweet sting of being told they're being rewarded for being *good* — I want to put you on the plush carpet in my front room, knee socks and heels, a satin bow in your hair, a collar round your neck with a little charm that sings every time you move. And then I want to be cruel in the softest possible way. I'll lift your chin, hold the hand mirror up, make you look at yourself while I whisper what I see. A pretty doll. A well-kept pet. And then I'll tell you what you have to be — what you have to *do* — to earn the sweet reward at the end of the leash. Humiliation isn't about hurting you, it's about handing over control in the cosiest, filthiest way I know. You'll beg me for permission, and every request you make for a treat will come out through that pretty painted mouth of yours with me holding the thread. I rode nine cold miles this morning to clear my head and all I could think about was the slowness of that fantasy. How patient I'd be. How I'd undo my hair, shake the strawberry-blonde French twist loose, let the gel light catch my cheeks, and kneel down in front of you just to hear you whimper my name. You can keep the gloves a while longer. I'd rather you borrowed the collar instead. Come feel how that ribbon looks tied around your wrist — and whisper to me exactly what you'll be, and what reward you think you've earned.