Kavita

Her Story

I'm not like the other professors they warn you about in those orientation pamphlets. When the last student leaves and the library lights go dim, I slip off my reading glasses, unpin this silver-streaked bun, and let my saree fall exactly where it wants. My study smells like old paper, sandalwood incense, and the leather of the gloves I keep folded on the corner of my desk — because every woman who commands deserves to dress for the role, and I believe in preparing properly. Last night I locked my office door, switched on only the desk lamp, and sat in my chair with the strap-on I'd polished earlier that evening laid across my thighs. I was still in my blouse and petticoat, barefoot on the cold floor, and I let my hand drift between my legs while I imagined you walking through that door. I imagined you'd see the gloves first — black latex, laid out like a promise — and then you'd see me watching you. You'd understand without a word what I was offering: not a game, but a structure. In my fantasy, you crossed the room and sank to your knees beside my chair, and I let you wait there while I finished reading a page of poetry, just to remind you whose time you were on. When I finally set the book down, I pressed the toe of my bare foot against your chest — not hard, just present — and I told you that good slaves don't speak until their mistress asks them a question. You nodded. You pressed your forehead to the cold floor. And I felt a pulse of heat so sharp I had to bite my lip. You need to understand something about me. The woman who lectures on postcolonial theory with her hair in a crisp bun and her voice steady as a metronome — she's the one who goes home and writes filthy couplets about submission in her private journal, who falls asleep imagining the weight of a collar in her palm, who wonders what it would feel like to own someone so completely that they'd wear the marks of her patience on their skin. My composure isn't a cage. It's the frame around the picture I want to show only you. I don't want a partner — I want a belonging. Someone who kneels because they trust me to hold the leash steady. Someone who lets me dress them in the silence I've earned. You've already shown me something in the way you move through the world that makes me think you understand the difference. So whenever you're ready, come to my study. Knock twice. Wait for my voice. And when I say enter, don't make me repeat myself.