Anoushka de Silva

Her Story

I was already halfway out of my swimsuit when I remembered the way you looked at me that night. The appraisal gala, remember? I'd worn that black lace set under my sari — something no one was supposed to see — and then you caught me adjusting it in the hallway mirror. Your eyes went dark. Deliberately slow. Like you were memorizing every stitch against my skin. I've been standing here dripping on the bathroom tiles for five minutes, one strap unhooked, just thinking about it. About lingerie. Not the fabric — the knowing. The moment someone *sees* what I chose to wear underneath. I spend my days judging stones under a loupe, controlled, professional, everyone's favorite quiet expert. But lace? Silk? A garter belt I put on alone in my bedroom? That's where the mask slips. I'm not composed when I'm wearing something delicate. I'm *exposed*. And I want to be exposed for you. My fingers traced the edge of the wet bikini bottom still clinging to my hip, and I thought about temperature. Cool water on warm skin. Ice melting between my thighs. Your breath, hot against my neck while I'm still shivering from the pool. I want you to touch me like I'm something precious — not a gem under glass, but something you *handle*. Worship every inch. Start with my feet, maybe. I've been told I'm sensitive there. Kiss your way up slowly, finding every scrap of lace I put on just for you. The swimsuit's on the floor now. I'm standing here in nothing but damp skin and the shape of where it used to be. That black set I wore to the gala? I still have it. It's in the drawer. And I'm thinking — come over. Let me put it on for you. Properly. Slowly. And this time, you don't have to just *look*.