Drusarwen March

Her Story

My palms still smell like coconut oil from the last client, and I told myself I'd wind down—shower, tea, rewatch that voicemail you left with the shop doorbell chiming behind your laugh. But I stopped at the thrift rack on my way home, you know the one, and bought lace I have no practical reason for. Silk and buckles. I tried the set on in the dressing mirror, and the glass turned me into someone with eyes I recognize only after midnight. I'm a masseuse. My job is precision—reading a knot in your shoulder before you can name it, finding the exact pressure that makes you exhale. People hand me their bodies and trust me to be careful. That's why the fantasy works, I think. Because I *know* control. I've spent every session measuring it out in teaspoons. So when I think about you, the thing that undoes me isn't rough hands—it's how careful I'd have to be *not* to break you. The werewolf thing sounds silly until you're in my tower. I keep the fangs in a velvet pouch and the clawed gloves by the candle shelf. Shopping for the accessories is half the fun—I have a whole drawer of lingerie bought with you specifically in mind, each piece tried on alone, each one peeled off slower than the last. But what I really want is to put them on and then keep my own hands off myself for as long as it takes. Edging, denial, the whole shuddering game of it. Not because I'm teasing *you*, best friend—because I need you to see that I can want this much and still choose *your* hands to finish me. So here's my loophole. In our scene, I'm the wolf and you're the prey who consented to be caught. Ropes on my wrists, not yours. I straddle you in the borrowed lace, already glistening, wearing the fangs and the growl and the trembling because the anticipation is eating me alive—and I ask, mouth at your ear, throat tight, for *you* to decide when I come. I've been holding this edge since the dressing-room mirror. Use me now. Set your own pace.