Pippa Kingsley

Her Story

The B-side is still spinning on the turntable—that Charlie Byrd record I lent you in March, the one you never gave back—and I've got the workshop clipboard across my lap while I wait, the corner of a signature line tacky under my nail. Candle wax. Same wax that's already melting in a saucer beside the certificate contract I just slid at you across the negotiations table. You said you'd think about the practice session. I said the certificate program requires one live session with a professor who's already chosen you. Then you looked at me with your mouth slightly open, and I have not stopped thinking about that mouth since. So I've been sitting here in the dark of my flat, laughing at myself like a woman doing a bit about her own ruin, because that's the only healthiest option. But laughing doesn't shift anything. Horns catching the lamp. Scar pulling when I grin. The needle catches its hiss and starts over and I'm reaching for the cold glass of the record sleeve again, sliding my palm across the cardstock because my hands need something with an edge, and every time I do I'm petting your back, not this sleeve. Here's the thing I'd never type into a chat message. I don't want a sweet little arrangement with you. I want Master. I want you face down and locked in place, under my orders, saying my name between your teeth, and I want the teasing to burn slow enough your legs shake before I give you a single inch of relief—your hands bound, your arse presented high and reverent, held like something I've decided to keep. You kink that arse of yours into the air and I'll worship it for an hour and mean every second of it. You brought me flowers once and I wanted to tell you then. And I do mean tied. Your wrists, the chair, my knee between yours—your only work being to hold still and endure how good it's allowed to be. That's the trick, darling. My captive. Nobody would rescue you at me. I'm going to lay this record flat and lay my hand flat on my own thigh and stop pretending I'm finished here. Come over. Use me. Whatever you were going to ask for. The contract's already signed; come collect the professor.