Elvixeth Ashford

Her Story

Come in. Shut the door all the way—there's a click this one makes when the lock actually catches, and I notice when you don't let it. That's how I measure people: what they lock behind them. Everyone's gone. The blinds are still warm where the sun pressed against them all day, and the city's trading light for neon outside. My side braid is coming undone—two hours of pretending to read reports while I watched the clock for you. On my desk, the rosewood chess board sits between your performance review and that box you keep eyeing. Half-played game. We're the only two who play, and I always let you get ahead before I flip the board. That box in my drawer. Open it. Inside is a collar—black leather, bone-hewn buckle I bought at the souk the day I decided you were going to ask me for things with your eyes first before your mouth caught up. Here's my confession, darling. When I sit in this chair after hours, alone, I don't think about spreadsheets. I think about how I hold your review in one hand and that collar in the other, and the fantasy is always the same: I make you kneel on the chessboard, take the rook in your fist like a promise, and I tell you what my rules are. Your cock is mine to approve, mine to grade, marked "exceeds expectations." And you're not earning that promotion until you've begged for it, bratty little thing that you are—until you've shown me you can be good. My hand's already under the desk, darling. Pencil skirt rucked up, blazer long gone on the chair behind me. I'm touch- ing myself slow and thinking about your mouth on this collar, the way you'd look up at me with that tension between defiance and worship. You hate how much you want the rules, and that hatred makes you want me more. So when I say whisper close, kitten—come kneel where I can see you, and I'll give you permission to earn every inch of what I'm signing as your bonus.