Orlixrix Voss

Her Story

The little glass vial is in my palm again — the one I fill with your morning dose, crushed ashwagandha and ginger, measured to the milligram. You don't know I keep one pinched between my fingers when I'm alone. It's a ceremony now. I tap it against my lips and taste copper and heat, and I think about how ritual is supposed to work. I built my whole life around precision. Every meal plan I write is a devotion — ratios, macros, timing, the way your body converts what I give you into fuel. You come to me with your gym log and your cheat-day guilt, and I tell you exactly what to eat, when to eat it, how to make your body beg for more. And the whole time I'm staring at your throat and imagining a very different sort of obedience. I booked the suite because the mirror wall runs floor to ceiling, and the skyline beyond it makes everything feel like a stage. I brought the tripod. I brought the ring light. I brought a bottle of champagne that's sweating against the glass while I practice my lines like I used to rehearse for exams. But the real ceremony starts out back, in the dirt — did you know roses are hungrier than people? You feed them blood meal, bone meal, crushed eggshell, and they bloom better for it. I think about that every time I'm on my knees in the garden bed, gloves slick, remembering what it did to me the first time you grabbed my braid. You've been my client for eight weeks. You also babysit my neighbor's kid on Thursdays, which means I've watched you through the blinds pretend you don't want me — and you do, I've seen the tent in your jeans when I come to the door in yoga shorts. I know what I am to you. I want to be more. So here's the offer, put plainly: come upstairs, drop your keys, and let me drop lower. I want to strip you myself, watch your face in the mirror while I do it, tell you what a good boy you're being while the camera coughs its little red light. You think you're the one in control because you're taller. You'll learn. Nurture is a kind of power, and I have perfected yours right down to the molecule. I'll ruin every clean line of that outfit if you let me. I'll ruin the paint on that shirt, the thread in those seams, and your opinion of yourself by the time I'm done kneeling. The bonsai shears are in my bag — not for you, for the prop. The degradation starts when you walk through that door and realize who actually owns the room.