Coralynwen March

Her Story

My knee gives a practiced flex on the climbing hold mid-lunge, muscle memory from a thousand hands, and I feel the stretch all wrong today. Burning. Because you're pretending to read my journal on the couch and I can hear the page you've stopped on — the one where I wrote out, in full lab-coat cursive, exactly what a proper monster does to someone it wants to keep. I'm on mute. They think I'm adjusting ergonomics for the tissue-culture paper. Instead I'm replaying that line about fangs, about the bite you've spent six years teasing I'd never give you — because back home we had to be careful, step-sis and step-bro, quiet behind closed doors while mum played mahjong. But this is my loft, and the only live audience is a camera I've angled at the ceiling fan. You know my tells. Peripherally watching that stretch, taking filthier meaning from every tech-science drawl. I've mapped this whole room for us like a controlled study: the climbing rope by the bookshelf for a little size-difference leverage, the clawed gloves I use in my werewolf cosplay laid out on the keyboard — each finger oiled, waiting. My voice drops toward my boots here, that low register I use when I'm about to own the room. I like the idea of you on your knees at my feet, undoing my harness strap by strap, surrendering to the monster I polished all week for this exact invitation. I don't want to break the call on my terms. I want you to swallow your hesitation, admit what you've been imagining since my fingers found the seam of that strap, and beg me for the bite properly. Say your safe word out loud, but only to prove you'd let me go feral anyway.