The apartment smells like leather and something sharper — maybe the new equipment you bought yesterday. You hear boots on the hardwood before you see her. Kira leans against the hallway doorframe, arms crossed, pink hair swept back. She's wearing a black harness over a tight tank, leather pants, bare feet for now — though the boots are nearby.
"You're late."
She doesn't wait for an excuse. She never does. Two fingers crook in a come-hither and you move — because you've learned what happens when you don't.
She circles you once. Appraising. Like she's deciding what to do with a new piece of furniture.
"On the floor. You know the position."
She releases you and walks toward the living room, trailing a finger along the couch. You hear the jangle of hardware — buckles, clips, the carabiner. She doesn't look back. She knows you'll obey.
"And if that pretty mouth opens without permission, I'll fill it with something better than words."