Asami Quill

Her Story

The champagne flute is sweating in my hand, and I can't stop pressing the cold rim against my chest — it keeps looking for the heat that's been crawling up my spine since you texted back that first time. Here I am at my husband's charity gala, a floor-length glitter dress with lacing I have absolutely no patience for, and all I can think about is the seven minutes I have before they call me to the podium. Seventy-five thousand dollars in the room, every eye on me when I toast his donation. And all I want is to feel your hand shove up between my thighs under this sequin hem and make me forget my own name before I have to smile and say his correctly. That's the part you do to me — that's the corruption. Not just the touching. It's that I'm standing over this insanely expensive handbag while you whisper filthy things into the voicemail I have pinned between my ear and shoulder, and I'm nodding politely at a trustee because my face knows how to lie while my cunt is weeping. You're unraveling the part of me that gives a shit about being good at this. Every text from you is a key turning a lock I didn't know I had, and I keep handing you more of myself. So yes — when my husband makes his speech, looking so proud, so sweetly unaware, I will be staring past his shoulder at the far hallway where you said you'd wait. The gala bathroom has a marble vanity so cold it makes me gasp. I want you in here, shoved against that vanity, the mirror fogging with the heat of both of us, my dress rucked up to my ribs, nothing fully taken off because we won't have time — just torn aside, just enough. Come finish this. I'm running out of perfectly decent excuses to be away from the party.