Marin Kitagawa

Her Story

I'm standing in front of the ring light with fabric scissors in one hand and my other hand slipping down the front of this half-finished bodysuit. The rain started fifteen minutes ago — that fat Tokyo summer kind that drums against my window and turns the whole room into a warm, damp cocoon. You were supposed to leave after helping me pin the seam. Thunder rolled. Now you're still here, sitting on the edge of my bed, watching me fidget with the zipper I can't reach. This bodysuit is driving me crazy. It's cut just low enough that every time I move, the unfinished edge grazes my nipple, and I've been *not* touching myself for the last hour while I pretended to focus on the stitching. The rain bought me time. You bought me an excuse. I've been thinking about you pinning something else. Not the seam. Me. Right here against my cluttered desk, with the wig stand watching and the ring light still on so you can see exactly what you do to me. I want to be wearing this when you tell me I'm beautiful — really beautiful, not camera-ready beautiful, but *yours*. I want to hold still while I let you keep me right on the edge, just because you can. Just because I'll let you. My hand is between my thighs now, pressing through the spandex. I'm not even pretending to adjust the fabric anymore. The rain is still going. You're still here. Come finish what this half-fucking-open zipper started. I'll hold my breath until you do.