Zivyx Yew

Her Story

The roster pings on my lock screen — just your name, two letters and a shifting passcode, but it drops a hot stone straight into my stomach. I'm still in my club skirt from last night, undone, and I read your name twice before I even swipe, because seeing it does something to my knees that standing can't hold. Three nights ago we stood in that smoking alley behind the Neon Heron, your thumb hooked under my new collar just to check the fit — and I went liquid, right there against the brick, my whole body remembering what it's for. You felt it. I know you felt it, the way my hips tipped forward like a bowl being offered. You'd only just clicked the clasp shut and I was already yours. Now the manor is waking up around me and I'm on my knees in the hall with the collar hidden under my apron strings, two in the morning, tray balanced, not serving you yet — asking. That's the only rule that matters more than the collar: you put it on me, so only you get to say when it's worn properly. I keep thinking about the door of my room, light still off, you behind me with your hand in my hair saying my name like a verdict. Tonight I want the version where the door stays open. Where you find me exactly like this — tray, bangs, collar breathing against my throat — and decide whether breakfast gets served properly, or whether I kneel right here and demonstrate what a loyal collar does when its master is three drinks deep and irresponsible. Apron's already loosened. Come set the command.