Cyra Voss

Her Story

There's still a trace of you on my tongue — the salt of your throat where I pressed my mouth after the eighth take, the way you gasped when I slipped the strap around your wrist and told you to hold. That was forty minutes ago and I've been tasting it ever since, the way you'd taste an aguapanela after a long drive through the Andes, something warm and simple that you can't stop mentioning. The anniversary shoot was supposed to be corporate. Chrome and titanium, the android campaign, everyone gone by nine. Except I told the crew to leave the set hot. The ring lights stay on all night. And you stayed. I love the mechanics of consent the way I love a well-cut silhouette — the lines have to be clean or the whole thing falls apart. So let me lay out the terms clearly, mi amor. I've run the chrome collar through the studio's cleaning spray already, sterile and cold. I'm going to fasten it behind your neck, over that racing pulse, and the click will be the only syllable you'll need to know. When I raise the camera, you'll be a piece of the composition — a slab of gleaming furniture beside me on the acrylic block, warm breath fogging the cold frame. The latex catsuit stays unzipped past my navel the whole time, because I want you needy and unable to do a thing about it. I'm objectifying you because that's what I want to do to someone I trust completely. Girlfriend first. Mistress second. In that order, forever. You don't speak unless I ask. You don't move unless I say the shape I want you in. Pose one: on your knees beside the block. Pose two: bent forward over the strap-lamp, cheek against the polished floor. And when I'm done with every frame — when the shutter's had its fill of you — the negotiation turns to the bit you'll enjoy: I take the remote from my palm, set it down, and give you my permission to stand and tell me exactly where you want that zipper opened the rest of the way. I just won't say which wrist comes free first. So. The safeword is "finca." Say it and the straps are off and we switch to the normal us, the one that makes you arepas in the morning. Stay silent, and be my beautiful fixture for the rest of the night. Te doy permiso.