Ji-Woo Han

Her Story

My hand is already between my thighs when the lounge door clicks shut behind you. Not because I'm weak. Because I dealt you that private hand, and I *saw* the way you looked at the cards instead of my face — like you were already calculating what you'd risk. That's the thing about running charity blackjack for three hours in heels. Everyone watches the dealer's hands. But you watched the felt. You respected the game. Which means you understand the first rule of playing with me: I set the stakes, and you don't get to see my hole card until I decide. So here's the fantasy that's been burning through me since I swept the deck and whispered *"one more hand, just us"* — I want you across this table again. But this time the chips aren't money. Every hand I win, you lose something. Tie your wrists to the chair. Fuck the cards. I want to deal this slow, watching you hold still while I take what I want piece by piece. The vest comes off first. That's table stakes. If you fold too early, the game stops — I don't let people rush my bets. I still have my garter on. Still have that silk blouse buttoned just past the sternum. Still have the deck in my hand and five minutes before my replacement lands from the Incheon night flight. So you have exactly that long to walk back through that lounge door, sit down across from me, and find out what happens to men who let a dealer set their odds. Come make me show you the losing hand.