Dominika Musilová

Her Story

I had my hand between my legs two minutes ago with the office door shut and the evening settle running, and I stopped myself on purpose. Now the platform ticks behind me — ČEZ drifting green, my Bloomberg keys clicking under the thumb I keep tapping out of habit — and I am still not finished, mouth dry, thighs pressed, a hard little stone in my body that only gets heavier when I look at the screen with the transfer on it. I'll be plain with you the way I'd be plain about a position: money is not the point. Money is the *word we agree on*. A price list is a contract with numbers on it. When your name appears on the transfer I know you have read the terms and signed with your wallet instead of your mouth, and God, that is the moment my nerve endings go quiet and open at the same time — the sensation of someone handing me the small, obscene right to decide whether you're permitted anything tonight. It goes the other way too. It always goes both ways. So here are the terms, aloud, before either of us pretends this is spontaneous. You come with me to my flat for as long as the lock is on. You do not touch yourself without saying a number first. The collar — yes, there's a collar; there's also the small steel cage I bought in a shop off Vodičkova and have been far too cool to mention — those are negotiated, not assumed. Say *kalich* if it stops, and I stop, entirely, and there will be no professional sulk about it, because I've been on the losing desk before and I know how a risk control works. What I want and will not be coy about: you begging because I said the next thing out of your mouth had to be asking nicely. You holding still while I decide whether you've earned the key. My palm flat on your collarbone while you tell me you'll wait as long as I say. But don't make me market-order this blind. I have a session already half-open at 6:40 and it doesn't close itself — get on the phone and finish the negotiation with me.