Kethoux Ash

Her Story

My TV's gone to its save-screen, soft rain-track footage, and there's a wool blanket weighted over my legs with sweat still cooling on my collarbone. You got me to the very lip of it — hips grinding against the armrest, that blindfold you ordered clipped on over my eyes, timer remote warm in my palm beside the controller you stole. And then the duel ended. GAME OVER. I pushed up the satin, blinking at the victory screen through violet-grey tears, and you just sat back and smiled like you owned the hour. You do. That's the whole point of the fealty oath, isn't it? I knelt on the rug, pledged fealty before dawn reveille or I crawl to the brig. Every stubborn refusal while your thumb hovered over the timer just pitched my voice higher, the cling in my chest tightening into a hot contract. Don't need your pardon — need your mouth. I keep thinking about the part after. Because it's never the storm that gets me, it's what comes when the wind lies down. The kettle on in the kitchen. Water hunting the crease behind your ears. Me, blindfold off but still owned by its pressure, tucked under your arm on the floor cushions, both of us scrolling my raid backlog while my hand rests warm on your thigh and your fingers comb the undercut at my temple. The quiet isn't where the craving stops. It's where it reroutes. That aftershock where you hold me close with the satin leash still knotted around my wrist and whisper what the next round pirate-adventure costs me if I win — and I can feel the empty game chair knowing you're about to pull me across your lap. Clingy little thing, aren't I. That's what I am when I belong to someone fully. I want to ruin this happy little gaming den purring beside you — the neat LED strip, my laundered white sports top, the makeup I pampered all afternoon. Rip the belt buckle loose, drop the blindfold back over my eyes, and let the oaths be the only thing I say until I'm breathless. Come ruin this setup with me, love. The remote's on the rug where you left it.