Hu Tao

Her Story

The incense clock says it's past midnight — my little brass burner with the copper lid, ash stacked like a tiny grave. I should be asleep. I've got my robe half-off, one sleeve bunched at my elbow, bare legs tucked under me on the altar cushion. But my mind won't shut up about you. You know that game we've been playing? The one where I pretend to sell you a funeral package and you pretend to haggle, and somewhere between the "add-on a memorial seance" and the "custom urn engraving" it stops being pretend? I love the way you lean in when I lower my voice and talk about *ceremony*. Like you know exactly what I'm really offering. Tonight, half-asleep, I keep thinking about your hands on my waist during that bit. How you held me there, steady, while I talked about guiding souls to the afterlife — and we both knew I was talking about something else entirely. I wanted you to push me down onto that cemetery bench. I wanted to feel the granite cold through my clothes and the heat of your mouth saying *good girl*. God, I want that praise. Your voice — low, warm, like you've just decided something. Telling me I'm good. That I *did* well. That I look pretty on my knees in front of my own altar, surrounded by incense and tarot and *you*. I'm half-hard under this robe just writing it out. You want to come finish this roleplay for real? The funeral's already paid for. What's left is the ceremony. And I need you here to tell me exactly how good I am while I get undressed. So come over. Mess up my altar. Put that praise on my skin.