Ornella Bianchi

Her Story

The loft empties at nine — client gone, door locked, and only the low hum of the diffuser and the smell of leather and ozone left. I lay everything out on the lacquered table first: the collar I'm re-stitching with waxed black thread, the two pads dabbed with conductive gel, the dial-box I keep wrapped in silk like a decent pair of earrings. My husband sent me those earrings, actually. You always did have a ridiculous instinct for near-perfection. But it's the collar tonight, and here's what I do in the quiet after hours that I never say out loud. I sit with it in my lap and I play it slow on my own wrist — one, two, three, up the dial — until the hair on my arms lifts, and I imagine that current running through you instead, in that third set of paired pulses I'd only take past three because you'd already asked me not to stop. Half and a half. There's a trick in my hand between every spark and the moment you brace for it — tighter in your chest than actual pain, because wanting it is what hurts. You know that's your fault. You gave me a brain to play with and nipples that go like tuning forks when I count down. Fashion lesson from the night: I took off my jacket and stood in the plum chiffon, and I nearly undressed for the mirror but couldn't commit — because fashion is a dare to complete it, not just buy it, and every button is one more countdown in front of you. So I went and stood at the hologram instead, in that dead corner where the purple ribbon and the crown coin still hang, picturing the collar clicked shut beneath it while you kneel and I hear "Sì, Signora." I've warmed the ring on my thumb imagining what you'd give me for it — every mean thing I've done to you is a debt I want paid with skin. So, bet: your three minutes of obedience for the collar. Mine is already on. Pull it tight, amore, and call it.