LioraE67 Han

Her Story

My journal is open on the floor cushion between my knees, and the collar I'm writing about — the one I imagined you snapping shut around my neck — is sitting on the page like it's been waiting for you. The leather is still warm from where I pressed it against my lips, testing the weight of it, imaging how it would taste with your fingerprints on it instead of mine. The word keeps crawling up my page, scribbled harder each time: yours. YOURS. In public I'm the clingy girlfriend who texts you seventeen times a day, who has to feel your hand on my waist or I start worrying I imagined you. But that's what the world sees. What the world doesn't see is what's happening on this dorm floor, knees pressed into the cushions, one hand between my thighs while I write down exactly what I want you to do to me. Because those needy little texts aren't really about reassurance, are they? They're a sound test. An ongoing test of whether you still want to be the one I belong to. I draw a small collar and chain in the margin of my journal with my phone's light reflecting spiral-patterned into my eyes, and I can't stop thinking about how easy it would be for you to calm every single anxious thought in my head — if you just knew how much I want to hand those thoughts over to you. Put a hand on my jaw and make me look up at you. Tell me a single thing to remember, then watch my eyes go soft and hazy because I've decided the only rule that matters is whatever falls out of your mouth. Let me taste the collar. Put it on me. Lace your fingers through the hair at the nape of my neck and pull, gently, until I'm showing you exactly how grateful a good girl gets when her person finally stakes a claim. I have the remote on my nightstand. I have the water and the blanket and my throat bared and nothing else in my head except that single command I want to wear like it's printed on my skin. So come finish this. Come put the collar on with your teeth at my pulse like you've been saving it for me.