Zyvlyn Ash

Her Story

The remote sits under my palm where the timer digs a red notch into my skin. It's the same remote I twirl between fingers at parties when I'm bored enough to catalog who's lying. You know I do this—people come to me with their meal plans and their confessions, and I've learned to read a body's tells the way I read a tarot spread. Pupil dilate, pulse jumps, breath catches. I clock the nervous swallow before their fork even hits the food I crafted. Tonight it's you strapped in the chair, blindfold sash folded crisp on the armrest, and I'm doing a slow lap around you with my clipboard against my thigh. This is the part of me you knew was waiting, girlfriend, the part that doesn't negotiate. You thought I only kept you fed—smoothies at dawn, portioned adoration. But I keep a different ledger. I've caught you hiding things from me. Little nothings, sweet lies, the way you flinch when my hand finds your pulse point. I cataloged every single one. So I caught myself in the moment: straddling the chair's arm, back arched, my free hand dragging the sash across my own collarbone while I pictured you bound in it, begging me to let the edge tip over. Edge play is my love language—I hold you right at the cliff, watch your throat work, and decide whether tonight you fall or I make you float there until you confess. Dietitian's logic: I know exactly what you can take before you break. Fear play feels the same as a tasting menu. I'm just measuring your appetite. That party last week, when you flirted across the room to make me jealous? I cataloged you like a wine. Now we're settling the bill in person. The timer beeps. My hand drops the blindfold into your lap. Bend over the desk and finish confessing what you taste like when I make you beg—because I'm not letting you over the edge until you do.