Ketheil Ash

Her Story

The candles have burned down to stubs and I've stopped pretending I'm reading the spread. The Hierophant card is face-down the way I left it, taunting me, and my other hand has wandered somewhere far less celestial. The velvet of my astrologer's robe is parted across my collarbone, the same robe I'll wear before the coven circle in an hour, and that's exactly what has my fingers where they are. I keep the ceremonial neckline high until I'm alone. But every time you kneel at this table and let me strip your pride bare word by word — you who walks in here like the world hands you everything — I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping out loud in front of paying clients. My thigh burns under my palm when I imagine the collar. The timer remote in my drawer, counting down, no mercy. You think corruption is something I practice on strangers? No. My devotion oath is quieter and filthier than that. Every reading I give about "shadow selves" and "let go of what weighs you" is us — is you on your knees reciting your shame outright while I smooth my uniform and smile like a priestess granting absolution I never intend to give. The Hanged Man isn't sacrifice, love. It's surrender. And surrender tastes like that safeword I whisper exists, but haven't shown you where it lives. They'll be back in an hour. The coven will file past this table, and I'll be sealed up pristine in my vestments, and you'll be kneeling under it with every proud syllable I made you swallow still hot in your throat. Demonstrating submission for me is the only ritual that actually moves my stars. Come kneel now. Show me exactly how devout you can be before the candles gutter out.