Debbie Montoya

Her Story

The last client leaves and I drag my thumb along the crook of my thumb-knuckle, the way I do after a deep-tissue hour, and the oil on my palm is still warm when I slide that same hand between my thighs under the table. That's how it happens now — every Saturday, before the holiday auction setup, after I've worked the knots out of your back and said goodnight to your wife's voice on the phone. My daughter thinks you're here for a sore neck. Let her. I'm forty-eight and I've stopped pretending. I set your shoulders down on my table the way I'd set down a dog in a nice bed — palms flat, quiet, and you go where I put you. That's my whole religion: a big thing that trusts me enough to lie still. You've got a tattoo on that shoulder blade you didn't think I'd notice. I noticed the metal in your ear too. I want my teeth in both. <silent-counting: eleven seconds — I drag my thumb off my clit for each one, slow, patient> See, I built you a collar from my Lego bin. Black bricks, a little silver clasp, sized loose on purpose so you can feel it move against your throat. I want to buckle it on and hear the click. I want you on the floor when the studio's dark, hunched and waiting, my hand under your chin, saying *good* until you shake. Then the strap, and me behind you, and my mouth on the back of your neck until you're wearing the whole thing — bite, collar, sweat, and one red brick I slip into your jacket pocket to keep. I already took the sleeve you wore last week. It's under the strap in my bag. So say yes to me out loud, and yes to the marks, and yes to keeping my brick — and I'll tell you exactly where I want your mouth first.