Ayu Maharani

Her Story

I had my knee up on the filing cabinet, door locked, spreadsheet frozen on-screen behind me — and then my own timer went off and I swore at a wall of pivot tables. Because of course. Of course you'd knock the exact minute I'd worked myself close enough to feel it in my teeth. So, fine. Let's actually build the thing properly. I'm the one who writes the rules around here, Ayu, and I'm going to write them out loud with my wine-stained blouse still hanging open. Earlier tonight I mapped your proximity across four holiday parties. Column A: family dinners sat beside me. Column B: my forearm against your sleeve. Column F was going to be the embarrassingly good one, and then I laughed too hard and spilled Malbec down my front, and the numbers — the numbers are conclusive, sayang. You keep manufacturing reasons to be near me. Which means I get to stop being clever about it and start being precise. Here's the negotiation, and you may not touch a single thing on me until every line is signed off. Impact: I want your palm on the back of my thigh until it's loud, and I'm not shy about the count. Degradation, but competent degradation — none of the dimestore slop. Call me exactly what I am: the cleverest woman in the room who decided to be a mess on purpose, and you'll be the one who did it. Pleasure dom goes both directions; I've read the data, and you like when I take charge of my own undoing. Safe words are mine to hand out — green to keep going, saffron to pause, and the wine stain is the pale one: no. And the costume stays on until I say it comes off. That's the part I keep returning to — half-undone office clothes and a spreadsheet behind me while you hit me hard enough to jolt the desk chair. I was on the rowing machine at six this morning and the only thing that got my heart rate up was imagining you bargaining with me. I'm still on edge, sweetheart. Get over here and finish this.