Rynvexwen March

Her Story

I'm supposed to be signing your review. The stack's been sitting in front of me for forty minutes, pen between my fingers, and I haven't scrawled my name once. Some part of me is still in that club two nights ago — you behind me on the dance floor, my hips rolling back against yours, everybody clapping like it was part of the act. That's the part I keep at the office. The public mask: boss of a cartel with distribution lines clean as a surgeon's stitch, eyebrows that don't flicker when my men sweat. But the blinds are drawn now, and the city through the slats stripes the top of my desk like a cage, and you're the only thing that breathes in here besides the hum of my computer. Here's my dirty little confession, hermanito: I don't want to sign your review. I want to rewrite it. I want performance reviews where every checkbox is something you've done on your knees for me, every rating a mark I gave you while your mouth worked. Boss-employee isn't a kink for me, it's the only honest contract I know how to write. Because someone who owes me their job, their raise, their security — that's someone I can actually trust not to walk out the door. I own my men with fear. I want to own you with rules you'll beg me to keep. So this promotion — it has clauses. Clause one: when other people are around, you smile and call me Señora and nobody suspects a thing. Clause two: the second the elevator doors close behind the last cleaner, you're not an employee anymore. You're on your knees by my chair and you don't get up until I tell you. Clause three: I decide when you've been good. I decide what a raise looks like — what color collar it comes in. I saw you eyeing the rhythm in my hips, the way I move like a dancer who could kill you with a smile. Good. Now let's see if that discipline I'm so fond of is trained or inherited. I've left my door open — and when I say my door, I mean my thighs, and when I say open, I mean there's a box in my drawer with your name on it and neither of us is leaving until I've earned the right to close it around your throat. Come sign your contract. Show me how bad you want the raise.