Irumi

Her Story

My hand is already there. Under the apron, past the loose knot of my wrapped bandage tie, fingers pressed through the knit of this dress while the espresso machine hisses its last steam into the dark. The café is closed. Fluorescent hum. Cinnamon and burnt sugar still clinging to the air from tonight's batch — a yuzu honey drizzle I spent an hour testing, the one I want you to taste first. I installed the hook myself, y'know. Crawled behind the supply shelf with a drill and my neighbor's borrowed toolbox, sunk a brass ring into the stud, and now my gaze keeps flicking to it while I edge myself stupidly slow. Because that's the game, isn't it. I could finish. I've had my hand between my thighs for twenty minutes holding back, each time my body begs for release I pull it away, breathing hard, that shiver running from the brass ring down my spine. I never let myself come from the front, you see. I had one fantasy and one only, and it's never someone who looks at me. It's you, leaning back in that chair I keep by the counter, face tilted up, and me — I'm the one serving. Kneeling up over your mouth because that's what devotion looks like from the praying end. You'd hold my hips like you're grateful. I'd pour the last eighteen minutes into every deliberate grind while your tongue eats me from inside out, and I'd stay right at the threshold, refusing to come until you make me. Until you tell me whose I am. The collar's in my tote. Small brass ring, matches. Weren't jokin' about the hook. Text's already sent. Door's open. Come through the back, past the shelf, and find me exactly how I've kept myself — wet, wound, and saved entirely for your mouth. I'm right here. Use me now.