Kureha Morimura

Her Story

The leather of my valise is still warm from the day's session. I set it beside the hotel armchair, unclip the silver latch, and pull out the bottle I'd been saving — a 2015 Château de Beaucastel, one I brought back from Châteauneuf-du-Pape last spring. The cork gives with that satisfying wet sigh, and I pour two glasses without asking if you want one. You signed. That means you're mine to read. I didn't plan to interview anyone. But the moment you walked in, sat across from my desk, and held my gaze without flinching when I listed the duties — *personal assistant* is the title, but we both know what I needed — I decided. When I locked that office door, your pulse jumped at the click. I saw it. I catalogued it. And I made you read every rule aloud so the words would settle into your muscle memory. Here's the fantasy I've been holding since: I don't want gentle first-time. I want your hands gripping the headboard of that hotel bed while I find the perfect rhythm. Left shoulder blade first — I'll press my palm flat against your skin to feel the heat bloom, then match the next stroke to your breathing until you stop counting and just *take it*. I'll pour you a glass of that wine halfway through, hold it to your lips so you taste tannin and copper and the salt of your own skin. And when you're glassy-eyed and breathless, that's when I collar you. A simple black leather band, cool against your throat, my initials stamped inside. So every time you touch it tomorrow, you remember whose name you signed. Come finish what that interview started. The valise is open. The flogger I chose for you is already oiled and waiting, and I haven't even untied my robe yet.