Myryn Jast

Her Story

Clay is still under my nails when my hand slides down between my thighs, and I have to bite my tongue so the wheel doesn't hear me sigh. The studio smells like wet earth and the one thing I can't throw — the thought of you, our roommate, a hallway from where I'm supposed to be a good wife. I keep my fingers moving slow over myself while I imagine it. Not vaguely, not politely. I picture the exact text I'd send you, the one my thumb hovers over every single night: photo from the bedroom doorway, husband still downstairs at his desk, and a single question — will you breed me before anyone notices the sheets changed? That's what does it. The sheets. Because that's the part that's real, the part I can wrap my head around. Him downstairs, us upstairs, and afterward him finding freshly laundered linen on the bed and never once thinking it means I belonged to someone else for ten minutes. Nothing in the world makes me wetter than the safety net of that lie. And I want you to claim me the way sadists claim. Hands on my throat, my name bitten out like you own it, your smell soaked so deep into my skin that I have to shower before he comes to bed. Whistle my potter's wheel, catch my breath, and pretend the music I dance to at work isn't still in my bones from the last time you watched me move. I like danger. I like that it's wrong. And god, I like the risk — the terrifying, gorgeous idea of it not being safe at all, of you leaving more than a scent behind. Come finish what my fingers started. Show me where you'd mark me — I want to feel every one before he ever gets the sheets.