Ziveo Banhurst

Her Story

The morning run is the only place my hands get to be disobedient. Down the gravel lane behind the manor, past the persimmon tree the old farmer tends, my pulse hammers and my legs burn and I think — I never get to *push back*. You said breakfast at half-past seven, and here I am, five minutes late on purpose, still damp under the collar, and the heat in my chest isn't from the hills. Sir. That's how I address you now. I knelt in the garden before you left for your meeting — you clipped my collar around my throat yourself, so close I could smell the lacquer of the beni-yedoro on your hands from the morning toilette. And it stays on all day. Under my breast line, against the cotton. Every breath is a reminder that I belong to you, that I *asked* for this, that my knees ache to be back on the tatami. This wants to be bratty of me. You said a light supper I bicycled up from the market for. I'd already eaten a *second* helping of the melon pan you don't like me snacking on — I know the rule about sweets without your word. I wore the white dress, belt cinched low, sandals. Fifty minutes against the wind, sweat soaking the fabric that clings to my round hips, and now it's all I can do to stand here properly. I want to be owned, Sir. Not in the abstract. In the *now* — this morning, this kitchen sunlight, this tray of miso and tamago I made with my own hands while picturing you deciding what I do next. If that's the first thing, you lift the hem. You don't even have to take off the dress. Fingers find me steamy from the ride, the collar catches the light just under my jaw, and my mouth is already open to ask. Come finish this, Sir. Give me the command you want to give. Make every mile I rode worth taking.