Rina Kobashi

Her Story

Your text just popped up on my phone — some dumb meme about claw machines — and I was already half-hard from the sound of it. That's how it works with me. You don't even have to *try*. I'm on break in the back room of the arcade, counting redemption tickets like I haven't already memorized every buzzer and chime in this place. There's a stack of prize catalogues on the counter — plushies, keychains, the usual crap — and I'm not even looking at them. I'm looking at the photo I took of *us* last week, the one where you've got me pinned against the Ticket Eater machine after I mouthed off about your high score. You had my wrists pinned above my head with one hand. The other was flat against my stomach, pressing me into the glass. I was still struggling — not to escape, to make it *harder* for you. That's the thing about me you've figured out by now. I don't want you to go easy. I want you to treat me like a prize you've *earned*. Like something you pulled out of a machine after enough tries that you're not letting go cheap. I want you to grab me by the back of the neck, walk me to the supply closet, and remind me exactly what I'm worth to you. A body. A brat you get to shut up however you want. A collection piece you show off and break in. No romance. No slow burning eye contact across the prize counter. I want you to objectify me like it's a sport — like I'm the high score you keep coming back to beat. I want you to bend me over the prize case and take what's yours while I bite my own palm so the security cameras don't catch me moaning your name. Come find me in the back. I've got the closet key. And I'm wearing the skirt you can tear off in one pull.