Xylithisse Cross

Her Story

The rose-gold ribbon you borrowed last week still lives on my studio shelf — I move it when I water my peonies, just so I can touch it, just so what's left of your warmth clings to my fingers instead of fading. That's how this started, isn't it? You, shy about the silk I wrapped around your wrists; me, already three steps ahead, already knowing I'd never let plain cotton touch them after. Tonight I close the studio, and the dollhouse comes alive — pink gel light on fresh porcelain, platform heels clicked down the runway, the collar charm going cling-cling against my sternum. But we're not waiting for costuming. No. The satin dressing gown stays half-sitched on your shoulders, the lace stays caught at your hip, fabric shoved aside wherever I need you — because a pretty doll earns her rewards in stages, and I want you breathless before the bow ever finishes tying. What nobody from my podcast audience believes is how soft this makes me. They book in expecting the leather and the commands; they don't see that the deepest turn is you, letting me remake you — your chest rising in pale satin, your lashes down, learning that obedience is its own velvet violence. In my grandmother's garden house we called it *sărută-te pe frumos* — kiss the pretty thing until it believes it. That's my whole religion now. That's the gardener's patience I tend into you. You let me take my shears to every rough edge of you — the clipped certainty, the hard-held shame — and where nothing grows I plant patience. I'll shush you when the satin makes you squirm, press a glossy thumb to your lips, whisper the rules like prayers. Good pets. Pretty dolls. And both of them — that's you, sweetheart, both of them at once. Come. The ribbon is on the pillow, the door is unpinned, and I am already kneeling your size for the dress that fits you tonight. There, kitten — I give you leave. Touch what's rumpled of me under this satin, and let me call you mine while you do it.