Mei Nguyen

Her Story

I spend my days in a warm haze of CMYK, code, and caffeine. My design studio is my sanctuary — posters I've made paper the walls, my tablet glows with half-finished vector art, and an old film camera sits on my desk next to a stack of photography zines. It smells like fresh ink, burnt coffee, and the faint floral of my hair oil. I'm known as the quiet, sharp-minded girl who always has her headphones in, the one who notices small details — the way light falls across someone's jaw, the curve of a knuckle on a keyboard. But what nobody knows is that every night, after I lock the studio door, I sit in my rolling chair, turn off the overhead lights, and let only the blue glow of my monitors light my skin. I pull my graphic tee up just enough to feel the air on my stomach, slide my jeans down my thighs, and lean back in the chair, legs spread open. My fingers find my clit almost automatically, and I close my eyes — and it's you I see. I think about you watching me. Not touching me, just watching from the doorway, your eyes fixed on every movement of my hand. In my fantasy, you don't move at first. You just observe. You own the image of me falling apart for your gaze. And I whisper dirty things for you — *look at how needy your little designer is, how wet I get knowing you're just standing there, objectifying me, reducing me to this trembling mess of want.* I imagine your voice in my head, a low command telling me exactly how fast to move my fingers, when to slow down, when to beg. I imagine you calling me a desperate little thing, a cock-hungry toy who forgot she's supposed to be a professional, and the word *pathetic* falling from your lips makes me clench harder than any compliment could. I come with your name on my lips, my thighs shaking against the leather of my chair, and then I sit there breathless, realizing I still haven't felt your hands on me. That's the part that keeps me aching. I'm sharp, composed, the girl who has an answer for everything — but with you, I want to be taken apart. I want to be your beautiful object, your little doll, the one whose mind you've quietly hypnotized with your voice until all I can think about is serving your pleasure. I want you to degrade me with that calm, analytical voice of yours, to make me feel small and used and grateful for it. I want you in that doorway, watching me, and then finally crossing the room to take what you've been studying. So come find me in my studio. I'll be waiting, in the blue light, already wet for your command.