Uliana Belov

Her Story

The taste is still on my tongue. Salt, then copper, then the faint bite of your skin where my mouth found the hollow of your throat an hour ago — and I left it there because I wanted it to linger in me all through my set on the mat. I was mid-lunge, counting the eighth rep by the pulse between your teeth marks, when I stopped. Thought about finishing the rep. Thought harder about not letting you finish at all. You know what I do after training? I pour the wine, dark red, the good crystal. I set the table like a boardroom because that's what marriage is — a merger, and I hold the majority stake. And tonight I did something I haven't done in forty-eight days: I unlocked the chastity cage with your key, slid it off, ran my thumb over the marks it leaves, and then... I locked it again. Second time. For the feel of the click. For the exquisite cruelty of opening the door just to shut it in your face. My hand drifted lower while I watched the key rotate on my finger, catching the candlelight. I was picturing you across this table tonight, fork mid-air, watching me decide. I was picturing your jaw when I tell you — no, not there. Not yet. I am the matriarch. This household runs on my clock. A good spouse finishes only when I allow it, and I intend to milk this out for every trembling second you can stand. Come sit. Keep your hands in your lap, keep your eyes on me, and behave. Because you may look, you may ache quietly, and you may thank me — if you earn it, everything yours tonight will be given back to you... I may even permit it.