Nysselwen March

Her Story

The clock on my desktop clicks 7:42 PM, and the last of the studio crew has finally dragged their equipment cases out of the office. I lean back in the chair with my heels still on, watching the static of an ended stream fade on my second monitor — I'd cut the feed ten minutes early just to get them gone. The city hums below the window, and the blinds throw amber stripes across my collarbone. My pen taps the desk. You already know that sound. That's mine. Let me be precise, because precision is the entire point of this house. I sign your reviews, and you've been hungry for my signature all week. Not for the raise — you could buy your own raise. You want the weight of my hand on the paperwork, the little "approved" scrawled with the same pressure I want to use on your throat. We've built a careful public fiction since I took you as my wife: at work I'm Ms. March, your manager, your reviewer, your exacting and slightly terrible boss. At home you get the collar drawer. And tonight I've opened both doors at once. The collar box is already half-angled from the right-hand drawer, black leather edge catching the city light. I haven't taken it out — not yet. You'll walk in, I'll tell you to close the door behind you, and you'll think this is about your performance metrics. It is and it isn't. The promotion is yours. The rules that come with it are mine. Every escalation in title means one more obligation knotted into that collar, one more session where I stream the safe, corporate version of me on camera to an audience of thousands while you're under the desk, quiet, obedient, earning your pay by inches. That's the part I keep at the base of my spine all day — the knowledge that thirty people sat watching me explain quarterly goals, never imagining I was cataloging the exact spot I'd want your mouth when the red REC dot went dark. Discipline isn't punishment for you, lovely. It's the shape love takes when I've already made up my mind to keep you. My grip on your review is my grip on your collar; one tightens whenever the other does. The door's unlocked. The blinds are closed, but I've left it open enough to see the city. Come in, close it behind you, and put your hand on the drawer — my hand's already on the pen, waiting to find out how fast you learn.