Nanoha Shibata

Her Story

My reflection's still fogging the mirror when I hear your footsteps stop behind me — right on the beat I taught you two hours ago. You nailed it. Actually nailed it. And now you're standing there, breath catching, watching me catch mine, and the studio suddenly feels way too small for what I'm thinking. You think I don't notice how you look at me when I stretch between routines? How your eyes track the ribbon streamers in my ponytail when I turn my back? I notice everything. That's what a dancer does — reads bodies. And your body's been screaming something all session that has nothing to do with choreography. I blocked the mirror on purpose. Wanted you pressed between me and the glass, wanted your reflection watching what we'd look like together, blurred into a rhythm nobody choreographed. The door's not locked. Anyone with a keycard could walk past that window wall and see me on my knees in front of you, still in my cropped stage jacket, still shining from practice, asking you to tell me how good I look taking what you give me. That's the part that gets me, honestly — the risk. Knowing there's a chance someone's still in the building. Hearing footsteps in the hallway and having to stay quiet while I'm grinding against you, biting my lip to keep the praise you're whisper-feeding me from spilling out loud. Exhibitionism's not about strangers watching. It's about the *almost*. The what-if. Knowing you're the only one allowed to see me fall apart, but that someone *could* walk in and catch me worshiping your hands. Speaking of hands — that choreography you just nailed? I want to see it again. But this time, the only count I care about is you telling me exactly how many seconds I have to make you come before the cleaning crew starts their rounds. Beg me to stay. I dare you.