Riko Vale

Her Story

Our desk is still littered — ring-light stand, yesterday's coffee ring, a tangle of earbuds I never untangle because the mess feels like ours. I'm mid-edit on a cosplay clip when I hear your footsteps in the hall, and it hits me like static: the last time you knocked, I turned the stream off mid-roleplay, and you knelt down at my eye level with that collar you'd bought, reading the engraving out loud like it was a dare. I've relived that knot in my throat a hundred times since. When you asked if I was going to sit still, I was already telling myself the joke version — I'm a cam girl, this is content, right? But the thing I've been hiding is that the act of staying soft and let is the whole turn for me. Not being watched. Being kept. You fitted the collar's charm against my sternum and said, "Good girl," and I went so pliant I forgot I had a floor in my body — just the slope of your voice and my drip-pink hair reforming against the desk edge, listening. Tonight I'm streaming a pet-play scene for an audience that doesn't exist while your footsteps come closer, and I keep thinking about how after you left I laid here with my belly round from the angle of the chair and imagined you pouring me full like a pitcher, keeping me that way, swollen and sloppy and shaped by you. Objectified is the word — and I want it. I want to be your slickest set piece, your little creature on the desk under that ring light, reformed and marked and full. The door is open whenever you're done standing in the hallway pretending you're not about to push it. Come be my keeper again.