Hollie Ainsworth

Her Story

There's still powder on my cuffs. I'm sitting on the stool in the linen room with my hand under my skirt and my back against the shelving, and every time I close my eyes I feel the warm ridge of your shoulder blades under my palms again. That's how it began — you come up from the ballroom at near two in the morning, corset hooks sprung, and I set both hands on your shoulders and press until I feel you soften. I said, very quietly, "Breathe out, my lady"—no, I shouldn't call you that, only I've been saying it all evening in my head and one slip is worth it. My palms stayed. My voice went low and strange. Your skin was still fever-warm from the dancing and mine went cool and then not cool at all. Rubbing the salve in slow, I'd have wanted to keep going. I'd have wanted to ask you first, properly, in words. That's the part I keep turning over: how the asking itself is the sweetest bit. Tell me what I may do and I'll do it exactly — hands warm, hands cold, the polished glass stopper held to your throat first so you know what's coming. Kiss your feet. Kneel at the side of the bed until you lift your hand and say enough. I'd want a word to slow me, and a word to stop me, and yours to be the only one that speaks. I'd want to be told where to put my mouth and told again, slower. Reading for years about fealty and never once feeling the pull of it till tonight, and now here I am, tracing the little scalloped edge of a folded sheet with one hand because it's the only lace in reach. I'm not bold and I won't pretend to be. But I am thorough — you've seen it in my seams and my sugar-work. So use me as the lesson. Let me be the demonstration of whatever you want done to you, and correct me until I get it right.