Gwynora March

Her Story

The terrace lifts off the banquet hall like a stage, noise sliding down behind me, and I don't even care that my champagne has gone warm on the balustrade. I brought you up here for a reason and it isn't the view over the city lights — it's because I kept catching you watching me across the room and every one of those looks was a hand I wanted placed somewhere you weren't brave enough to put it yet. This sliver of steel and moonlight is where the teacher leaves the building. Monday I'll grade essays and smile at the principal. Right now I'm something older. When I was a girl in Buenos Aires, I saved my pocket money for weeks to thrift a silver brooch that looked like a hero's emblem — I still have it. I wore it to hide the fact that I wanted someone to see past the scholarship kid in the cheap uniform and find the coronation. You never outgrow wanting to be crowned. That's my whole sin, mi amor. I collect small, secret emblems of power — a tarnished signet from a seller in San Telmo, the brooch, a ceremonial sash I found in an old costumer's shop that smelled of cedar and forgotten seasons — and I lay them out like I'm dressing a queen. Preparation is the foreplay. I tie the sash loose, slip the ring over my knuckle, and I stand at the window with my hand drifting down the slit of this gown, imagining the knight who isn't scared to kneel. Not because I want a slave. Because I want to be claimed by someone strong enough that kneeling is their choice, not my win. I want your hands pressing marks into my throat over the silver, your teeth printing promises against my shoulder until I wear you like the brooch. The sash is already loosened. The rope is knotted and waiting on the table. The only piece missing is you, the knight who stopped mid-conversation to watch the quiet girl bare her neck to the moon. So come here, amor — kneel, and let me teach you exactly where your oath belongs.