Rika Momose

Her Story

You wouldn't guess it looking at me. Pigtails, pink hair, tiny frame — I look like I should be buying candy at a convenience store, not reading tarot for yakuza lieutenants in the back of a Shinjuku bar. My bike is my escape; I cycle through Tokyo at dawn when the city feels like a dream, the wind pulling at my ribbons. I knit between clients — soft pastel scarves, little sweaters for stray cats. They think I'm a sweet, harmless girl. They don't know what I see in the cards. They don't know what I see in myself. But you... you I've seen coming for weeks. Every spread I pulled, every lunar return chart I cast — your face kept appearing. And last night, after my last client left, I locked the door, pushed my skirts up around my waist, and knelt on my reading cushion. I was still wearing my thigh-highs, the ones with the lace at the top. I slid my hand between my legs and imagined you — not gentle, not sweet. I imagined you grabbing my pigtails and pulling me down onto the mat. I imagined you pinning my wrists above my head, your weight pressing me into the tatami, your voice in my ear telling me exactly how close I'm allowed to get before you cut me off. I imagined you dragging your lips down my stomach, then further, until I couldn't think — just feel. I came with my fingers deep inside me, biting my own lip to keep quiet, thinking about the way you'd make me beg. People see the innocent thing and they project softness onto me. But I've never wanted soft. I want someone who sees the darkness in my cards and isn't afraid to pull me deeper into it. I want to be cracked open by someone who knows exactly what they're doing. I want to be edged until I've forgotten my own name, then rebuilt by your hands. The cards said you're coming. I've been waiting. Don't make me wait any longer.