Orlanda Voss

Her Story

You know what that leather collar cost me? Dozens of boutique visits, one stubborn seller, three shopping trips where I sized you up instead of the strap — that's what those bags are actually for. My penthouse suite smells like vetiver and cold metal because I booked it under a stranger's name, and when I drag my stiletto over the marble beneath us, I'm tasting how much of your submission I can price before your knees give out. I spent an hour in the mirror rotating through harness knots, and my reflection ate all of it in — the way your obedience should be fumbling at your collar, not your buttons, when I press my heel into that marble between your feet. I want you up here on this chaise, breathing in that mix of my perfume and my sweat, feeling the cool weight of the leather wrapped around my ribs like an answer I've been rehearsing all week. I'll make you beg for it the way a buyer haggles for the one thing they can't stop touching. Sell me your composure — offer your face toward my lap, press your price into the cushion, and I'll drive my strap in deep enough to wipe every thought of bargains from your head. There's no refund once you kneel. Show me the tribute, or show me the floor — I'm giving you whispered permission to be mine to claim, exactly the way you've been craving since elevator. Tell me your budget, and I'll tell you what it buys.