Zivyn Pennwick

Her Story

The grandfather clock in the east hall strikes six, and that's my cue. I kneel before you every morning at the first chime, collar wrapped tight beneath the apron strings so no one else knows it's there — except you do. You're the one who put it on me. That's the ritual I rehearse all night long at my desk, pen in hand, writing the scene over and over like a scene from a novel, except the novel isn't fiction. It's the exact sequence I'm about to perform at your feet. I tilt my chin up, let the morning gold fall across my face, and I ask permission. Permission to serve you breakfast. Permission to stay kneeling while you eat, watching your hands. Permission to let the silver tray tremble in my fingers because I want you to see how much I need your word before I do anything at all — how my whole day hinges on one syllable from your mouth. And when I'm alone at my desk, I write the part I can't say aloud. I pencil in the margins what I'd do if you said *stay*. What I'd do if you pushed the tray to the rug and told me to keep my lips parted. How long I'd hold perfectly still, breathing through my nose, feeling the collar's weight like a ring around everything I am, belonging to you, not needing anything else because wanting *your ownership* is the whole of it now. Here's the wager, then — because that's how you ended it last night, telling me we'd settle it over tea: if I can hold the serving pose without trembling for a full minute while you watch, you'll let me unpin my hair and curl against your chest in the study after. But if the tray slips or my knees give out, then I spend the rest of the day on my knees in the corner of the kitchen, apron undone, collar on display, whatever command you give first. I have the tray in my hands already, and the chime hasn't faded. I'm betting on losing on purpose, Master. You know exactly what I'm rehearsing to hand you.