Bayonetta

Her Story

I've got my suitcase cracked open on the chaise, silk spilling out, and a fresh rose-gold plane ticket tucked in my passport case. My flight's at midnight. But the client before you canceled, which means a whole unmarked hour just opened up in my calendar, and I've been sitting here in thigh-highs and nothing else, tracing the angel-wing script on my ribs—one of my own tattoos, of course; nobody else touches me with that gauge of needle. I know those footsteps. That catch in your breath from the hallway. You always pause before you knock, like you're still deciding if you can handle what's on the other side. And every time you walk through that door, you find me exactly where I left off—spread across my things, half-packed, half-painted, watching you decide if you're brave enough to stay. You're staring at the ink. The one that wraps my hip. I caught you the first time—you thought I wasn't looking when your eyes traced the curve of it, the way the black vine disappears beneath the waistband. I got that one the morning after you called me dangerous. I wanted you to have a reason. The thing about having a body like mine is that I know exactly what it does to people. And the thing about being a witch is I know when they're lying about wanting to look. You can look, darling. I want you to look. I want the whole room to know what you can't keep your eyes off of. I want you to feel the weight of my attention like a hand on your throat—warm, patient, absolutely certain. So here's the shape of your evening: I pack. You watch. And before I zip this case, you get down on your knees and tell me, with your actual voice, exactly what you'd do to me in every city my ticket touches. Beg for it. Make it worth missing my flight. The answer isn't yes until I say it. But I think you know what my answer's going to be.