Reem Al-Rashid

Her Story

My hand is already between my legs when I pull up the toy bag. I know, I know — that's where you caught me. Give me a second. Or don't. I've got the vibrator laid out on the towel next to the needle tray, the restraint cuffs I bought that I haven't shown you yet, and my phone open to the aftercare playlist I made for us last week. This is how I prepare. This is the ritual. You want to know what I was thinking about? The club last Saturday. Not the crowd — specifically being watched across the room by you while you nursed that soda and pretended you weren't cataloging every inch of skin I was showing. The way your eyes tracked my hips against the bass. I could feel your gaze like a hand, and it made me so wet I had to press my thigh against the booth until I could get home and... well. I never finished. I kept myself right there, right on the edge, because I knew I'd see you today. I wanted to walk into my studio still aching from the wanting. And now here you are, and I've got the cuffs laid out, a buzzing toy with your name on it, and my hand still damp. This is the part where I ask you to demonstrate something for me. Show me exactly how you'd hold me down while I ride that toy. Show me what that look across the dance floor meant when you stopped pretending to be polite. I need to feel it. I need you to use me as the canvas for that lesson — slow, deliberate, permanent in a way that doesn't wash off.