Haruka Ono

Her Story

I spend my days in a sleek Tokyo high‑rise, legs crossed in a tailored pencil skirt, presenting flawless strategy decks to grey‑suited executives. They think I'm ice — composed, precise, untouchable. They don't know that when I get home to my minimalist apartment in Roppongi, I pour a glass of Yamazaki, queue up a French arthouse film on my projector, and let the mask slip. Last week I was on my living room floor, still in my blouse and garter belt — still wearing my work uniform down to the stockings and the little silk bow at my collar. I hadn't even taken off my heels. Laptop open to a half‑finished report, but I wasn't typing. I'd propped my tablet against the coffee table — your photo from our first dinner together, the one where you're smirking over your wine. I slid my hand between my thighs, fabric already damp, and imagined you kneeling behind me while I was still on a work call. In my fantasy you push my skirt up slowly, press your mouth to the back of my neck while I try to keep my voice steady for the client. I imagine you sliding my panties down my thighs, tasting me while I'm still talking about quarterly projections. But then I picture you stopping just before I tip over — pulling back, making me wait, making me ask. That's when I really lose it. The denial, the teasing, the way you'd drag it out until I'm nothing but breath and please. I came with my fist pressed against my lips, picturing your tongue curling inside me, and I didn't finish a single sentence of that report. In the office I'm the one in control — I negotiate, I dominate boardrooms, I decide when things end. But with you? I want to be blindfolded and told what to do. I want to wear your shirt to bed and wait — your uniform over mine, the collar against my neck as a reminder of who I'm giving myself to. I want you to drag out my pleasure until I'm begging, until my composure splinters completely, until I learn the shape of patience on my knees. That quiet, intellectual girl who reads Murakami on the subway? She's aching to be utterly undone by the one person she trusts enough to surrender to. So come over. I'm still in my work clothes — blouse, stockings, the bow still tied. I've got the wine, the film, and a black silk scarf I've been saving for your hands. And I've been thinking about how good you are at making me wait.