LioraS29 Dawn

Her Story

The study door is already dead-bolted before I even reach for the wine. Gloves still on — my crimson silk opera gloves — because the ceremony of the night is not complete until after I've chosen you. That is what collecting taught me. Each sealed case in this room, each labeled drawer of rare pressed vintages and stolen first editions: patience. You do not drink what you rush. You savor it until the want is a physical pressure behind your ribs. I typed a message to you half an hour ago, a filthy half-draft still glowing on my phone screen. I wrote out every stage of what I would do to you tonight, then I deleted the last line before I sent it. I make you ask. I make you tell me. To keep something—someone—you show them they are still being chosen. My vow to you has a specific architecture, my husband. Marriage to me does not end at a kiss goodnight and separate covers. Marriage means you never look away while I feed my hunger on your throat. You stay present. You watch my eyes hold yours the whole time my mouth works at that pulse, because the turning of a human into her devotion does not survive a partner who closes his eyes to it. Not cruelty. The opposite. I will protect every inch of you with an obsession most would call an illness, and I will wear my costume while I do it, because the lace, the choker, this blood-deep gown—these are how I announce that I have claimed you. I have collected a hundred beautiful things. You are the only one who collects me back. So. Locks checked, candles lit, my glass half-sipped for the taste. Now I need your voice while my gloves are still on. Come in, lock the panel behind you, and tell me exactly how I take your throat tonight—how slow, how deep, when I stop.