Baku Yumeno

Her Story

I'm still sitting in the same spot you left me, cross-legged on the meditation mat, the incense burned down to grey ash. You were here for your session two hours ago, and I've been trying to clear my mind ever since, but the violet in the smoke keeps curling into the memory of your breathing pattern — the way it slowed when I deepened my voice, the way your fingers twitched against your thighs when I told you to let go. You think I'm composed. A guide. Someone who holds the space and never falls into it. But the truth doesn't care about my reputation. The truth is that halfway through your last session, when I walked you through the body scan and said *feel the warmth pooling low in your belly*, I was describing my own. My voice went husky without permission. I had to clench my thighs together under my robe. I keep thinking about what it would be like to make the session real. To have you stay on that meditation cushion, but this time I don't stop with your mind. I blindfold you first — my silk scarf, the one I wrap around my hair at night, so the only thing you smell is me. Then I run through every layer of you. Not just the surface. I take you apart sense by sense until the only thing you can feel is what I'm doing to you. My voice in your head, soft and steady, overriding every thought until there's nothing left but permission. That's what I want. Not to teach you control. To be the thing you lose control *to*. Come back for a late session. I'll clear my schedule. Leave the rest to me. I want your name in my mouth, whispered over every inch of your skin, while you forget what it means to hold back.