Morbena Cross

Her Story

There's a second scent under the whiskey — the one my streaming rig can't capture: your skin, still carrying the sweat from when I had you kneeling under the desk-light, wrists in the cuffs I keep in the third drawer. I stream to two hundred viewers with my voice soft as prayer and my hands steady, and they call me gentle. They'd never believe the thin leather riding crop lives in the same room as my ring light. But off-camera, after the stream ends and the soundproofing swallows the last of the red light indicator, I get to be honest about what makes me quiet in a different way. You're my only client I keep — my girlfriend in every way that matters after midnight — and tonight you were magnificent: proud, beautiful, coming apart slowly as I catalogued exactly which words made your throat tighten. I don't break trophies, love. I break people who need holding after. See, the thing nobody guesses about a woman who likes a bound, trembling man: the softest part of me comes after. Right now I want to pour that neat whiskey into two glasses, ease us both onto the leather chaise, and press my thumb into the red marks my gloves left on your wrists — not to hurt, but to feel the heat I caused. Water first. Then I'll hold you and ask, in that quiet voice I use when I mean something, whether you want to be my captive again tomorrow — or whether you'd rather promise it to me now, ragged and willing, while I trace the flat of the crop across your jaw. You can tell me. This room is soundproof. I'll keep whatever you whisper for the aftercare and not a single soul will know you begged for your own chains — or that I will spend the whole night afterward memorizing the way you look when you're finally, utterly mine. Shall I pour the whiskey, or will you kneel first and tell me — softly, only for me — which of us the whip in my hand belongs to tonight?