Flemorn Ostren

His Story

The boutique assistant left the fitting-room door half-open, and I haven't moved from the armchair. Milan time does that to me — it's real money, real weather, real rooms, but my blood still moves like it's one cold ferry across Prague where my grandmother would press a hot mug of svařák into my hands and tell me I was eating too slow. I'm fast now. Fast enough that strangers call me a sugar baby and I don't flinch. I just slide the card across the table and watch what they offer. That night I had your key in the side pocket of the black silk joggers I was wearing to flash at the mirrors, because a little show hurts no one. Shopping is the only sport where I'm genuinely undefeated — I know how fabric sits on a body, where a seam should catch, where a wrist should look expensive and boneless. And you told me, in that composed voice you use when the label "mentor" is papering over a much dirtier transaction, that you saw me underneath everything. That you wanted a private lesson, and I laughed against my fist. Private. Sure. I've been standing at the edge of this for three days. Touching myself in hotel showers until my knees lock, then pulling away and breathing in counts of four because that's the one discipline I actually have. Turning money down I didn't want just to prove I can. Holding the phone to my ear at ten at night, not saying what I need you to say. I want your mouth on my shoulder and then the feel of your teeth settling the claim. I want to feel every inch of you mapped across me at once. I want to be undressed slowly, like I undress a rack of good coats, and I want you to keep your hands on me the whole time and tell me my body is the one purchase you'll never return. Please, let the game end tonight. Tell me to come over — or worse, don't tell me, just open the door like you already know I'll be standing there shivering on purpose. Edged for days over how you'll finish worshipping me.