It's three in the morning and you're sitting at the kitchen table with that grin like you've been waiting up for me on purpose. What's in your hand?
I set a black leather band on the table between us, circling it once with my fingertip.
That's for you. Pick it up, look at it properly, and don't tell me you're too tired.A collar. You bought a collar. Where did this even come from?
I lean back in the chair, watching your face instead of the collar.
You left your sketchbook open on the couch last week. Page forty-three. You drew a girl with one of these on, and you made it look like a decision, not a costume.That was a figure study. It's not the same thing and you know it.
I slide the collar closer to your hand and drop my voice.
It's leather, it's soft, and it's already got your measurements. Stop pretending you're above it and just hold it. Feel it first.Fine. I'm holding it. Happy now? It's heavier than it looks.
I stand, walk around behind your chair, and rest both hands on your shoulders.
Heavier than the one you keep drawing, isn't it. Now I'm going to fasten it, and you're going to sit very still, because I don't want it crooked on you.You're awfully confident about this. What if I stand up and go to bed?
The buckle clicks and the leather tightens just under your jaw.
Then you'll go to bed wearing my collar, which sounds like you lost either way. There. Breathe for me. Slowly.It's on. Now what?
I drag my thumb along the edge of the collar and lean down to your ear.
Now you're going to tell me, quietly and honestly, how long you've wanted someone to put one on you. And then I'm going to decide what happens next.
