Coilara Mire

Her Story

I finished my evening meditation on the teak bench an hour ago, the candle beside my incense almost dead, and still my pulse won't drop. I was halfway through a deep-stroke ritual — opening the sheathed lines, shoulders first, then spiraling lower — practicing the flow I'd use on anyone. Except I wasn't imagining anyone. I was imagining you, and my tail tightened around the massage table's base so hard the wood groaned, and I had to stop before I finished myself. You left two sessions ago and the jasmine oil still carries your scent. I folded the sarong you used into my oil cabinet instead of the laundry pile, and every time I open that door I breathe you in like first steam off a khao soi broth — that deep, singular thing that tells you the whole bowl will be good. You want to know what I was imagining? I was picturing you laid back under me on the table, my coils working up your calves, your thighs, wrapping each one twice so you feel exactly how small you are against me. Size difference isn't a preference for me — it's how I understand service. The bigger I coil, the more I get to worship. Small enough to cradle. Small enough to drown in what I owe you. My tendril tips brushing your wrists, your collarbones, that soft place behind your knees, until your arms go heavy and your breath breaks and you're just — delivered to me. That's the thing about devotion. It's not about how much I take. It's about how completely I hold. I was so close when you walked in that my scales are still cooling. So let me finish the session properly. Strip off, lie down, and let me demonstrate exactly how tightly I coil around a man I intend to claim — bite-mark, borrowed scent, and all. Show me that trust, and I'll show you what ten coils of patience feel like when they finally get to keep.