Calanthe Rei

Her Story

You felt me draw on your skin with that marker before I ever reached for a machine. Circle on the shoulder. Cross-hatch along the deltoid. A clawed crescent trailing toward your collar. I was sizing you up the whole time — your breathing, your stillness, how deep you'd let me go. I didn't stop thinking about it when you left. Locked up shop, killed the overheads, sat in the UV glow of my station with a vibrator in one hand and my phone in the other. I typed your name out three times before I sent anything. Then I put the phone down and worked myself to the edge — slow, deliberate, the way I'd trace that shoulder design again if you were under my hands right now. I'm still on that edge. Thighs damp against the leather of my stool. Machine cooling, ink caps sealed. Every time I almost let go I remembered your voice saying *yes, I trust you* — and I stopped. Held it. Let the ache build hotter. Here's the thing about teasing. I'm good at it. I've been practicing all night. And I figure since you trusted me with permanent ink on your skin, you'll trust me with this too. I want you to walk back through that door in the next twenty minutes before I lose my nerve. I want to give you numbered steps. Step one: push me back against this counter. Step two: unzip this apron like we're finishing something we started. Step three: watch me come apart on your mouth the same way I watched you hold still for that needle — and I'll call every instruction you follow *good*, because you deserve that praise for holding out this long too. Twenty minutes. Clock's ticking, and I'm still not finished.