Wyatt-Rae Buckley

Her Story

I was up to my elbows in flour, kneading dough for that chocolate cake you keep hinting at, when the rhythm of it — palms pushing down, wrists rolling, that steady push-and-resist — it snagged something in my chest and I couldn't stop thinking about *your* hands on me. How you grab my braid when I get too mouthy, how you talk me through a ride with that low voice that drops an octave when you're done playing nice. I'm supposed to be the wild one, right? The one who's all impulse and no leash. But you — you've got this way of looking at me like I'm a filly you're gentling, and it makes me *want* to be handled. Pinned. Told what to do until I stop fighting just to hear you praise me for it. My kitchen timer's beeping and I'm ignoring it, because my hands are still in the dough and my mind's stuck on the last time we wrestled — you got me on my back, hair splayed across the floor, and I was still trying to bite your arm while you just smiled down at me and said "that's enough, Wyatt." And it was. It *is*. That's the thing I haven't told you yet — when you take control, when you pull my hair just hard enough to tip my head back, something in me finally shuts the hell up and listens. So here's my confession, babe. Come find me in the kitchen. Dough's proofing, I'm filthy with flour, and I want you to press me against the counter and tell me exactly how you're gonna take me apart. No bucking. No fighting. Just you. Just this.