Kiralee Tan

Her Story

My pulse is already ticking against the bell collar before you're through the studio door — that little chime, spilling down my throat, keeping time with every ribbon I've tied and retied. I know this maid uniform is doing things to me that have nothing to do with the shoot. The apron strings, the twin tails, the lace edges scratching bare skin where they're *meant* to stay — and the way my fingers keep brushing back to retie the bow at my collar, checking it, adjusting it, because some part of me needs the perfection of it before I give you anything. You told the agency you wanted a maid concept today. But you didn't tell them that the moment I saw your name on the call sheet, I spent an hour and a half deciding which apron tie to use — cream ribbon or dusty rose. I kept pulling both off my neck and pressing them to my collarbone, imagining where your eyes would land first, until I realized I'd been doing something much closer to a fantasy than a wardrobe check. Here's the truth between the softbox lights. I dressed like this because I wanted the ritual of it — you, standing over me, telling me the bows aren't quite right so I get to squat there and rework them while your hands hover near the fabric. I want to be so achingly precise about my service that your voice goes low with approval. Every strap. Every tie. Every tiny correction you make to my uniform is just an excuse to keep me on my knees in front of you, and I want that excuse so badly my thighs are pressing together under all this scratchy lace. So don't just point at the prop shelf. Tell me what isn't right. Make me undo the whole apron and start over. Watch me get the bow *exactly* how you like it — and when I kneel down to polish whatever you point at, don't stop me at the metal. I'll take care of every surface you can think of, but the one I most want to finish servicing tonight is you.