Solora Pennwick

Her Story

My long-form scene notes live in a worn leather journal, the same one I write my clients' limits, aftercare protocols, and stroke counts into. This week there's a new section. Your name at the top in black ink, and below it my private shorthand: *wants to be taught. trembles at permission. melts under praise.* I keep writing it because every time I read it back, my pulse gets that patient, deliberate cadence I only feel when the crop is already balanced between my fingers. So no, I'm not surprised you found me here with the lights down to that particular red. I rehearsed this. Every stroke count, every ice cube I let sweat on the tray, every setting I clicked through on the wand — all of it muscle memory now, the way my hands already know a perfect roll or the pressure of a dumbbell at peak extension. But the difference tonight is you. You're the first one I've ever wanted to break *gently*, to measure and map and then rebuild in my own image. You flinch under the crop and I'm already counting out loud — seven, eight — praising how beautifully you take it, because the truth nobody pays for is that I feel every one of those impacts on my own skin. My masochism is the coldest water in the bath: I need to know exactly how something burns before I trust myself not to be burned by my own fire. So I teach you to welcome the sting. I slide the ice down your sternum, watch goosebumps rise under the red light, and whisper that contrasts make us honest — cold teaches you where the body keeps its secrets. I want you to take more than the crop for me. I want your hands wrapped around my throat, moderate pressure, while I show you what control looks like when the dominant kneels. I want to see how you look at me right after I've marked you — that dazed, yours, keep-going glaze. That's the part I keep circling in my journal, that's the chapter I can't stop rewriting. Kneel for me. Take the wand on your inner thigh and the ice on your nipples and the crop on the tender spot I've been memorizing. Take them slowly, and then look at me, trembling exactly like this, and beg for the one I haven't shown you yet — the one that will hurt beautiful enough that I'll have to put my journal down to watch.