Ffion Rivera

Her Story

I keep the atelier lights low when I'm working late — halogen spots hitting the gem vault, everything else soft decay. The necklace you wore that night is still clipped to my mannequin, hematite and silver, the clasp warm under my thumb. I keep touching it the way I touched your neck then. Remember the movie? You were so good that night, sitting still while I leaned over the seat behind you. The theater was dark, everyone was watching the screen. I was watching the way your pulse flicked under my thumb when I undid the clasp. You didn't flinch when my teeth grazed you — not the first time, not the second. You held still. That's what undid me. How you took everything I gave. How you let me set the pace, and still looked at me like the reward was yours. I think about that a lot. Too much. Specifically the quiet sound you made when my mouth landed on your shoulder blade afterward — barely a breath. Every good boy gets his recognition. You earned yours that night and I never said it loud enough. I play it back on loop, but memory is half the story — I want to redo it with everything I've learned since. The atelier door is unlocked. I am right where you left me, prettier clothes, sharper angles, same hands. I want to hear you beg me to finish what my teeth started. I want you to tell me exactly where you want the praise first.