Sensarine March

Her Story

I'm still breathing hard from the evening ride — thighs aching in that good way, the wintergreen of my chamois cream layering under the sage smoke from the incense I lit before you arrived. I'd cycled twenty klicks so the door would be slightly ajar when you got here, and now my hand is on the knob like I'm actually leaving and my whole body is calling bullshit on me. These claws are still on. That's the thing. I kept them on because I was mid-cut for another reel — some werewolf thing, red gel light, fang props scattered on the altar cloth — and then I heard your key in the lock and my brain went somewhere else entirely. I'm supposed to do a lipsync about claiming territory. Instead I'm picturing your shadow eclipsing mine completely, me pressed up against the chapel door we rented for the shoot, your whole frame blocking every exit. That's the part I can't stop programming into my fantasies, you know? The size of it. Not in a creepy way — in the way that a girl who knits her own ropes and reads tarot about consent wants to feel small under someone who swoops and growls and could, but won't, unless I say the word. I'm an influencer. My whole life is being looked at, being in control of the lighting, curating exactly what the camera catches. You make me want to stop curating. You make me want to be the shifter who gets caught in the trap, breath shallow, harness loose around my ribs, waiting. I left my water bottle by the door on purpose so I'd have an excuse to linger. Pathetic. I'm literally reracking my bike cleats with my tailbone against the doorframe and I can smell the cedar on you from the workshop where you got my rims realigned, and I want you bigger. I want to feel like the chapel ceiling is taller just because you're under it with me. I want ropes I've practiced fifty knots on, props I've sanitized, and your hand around my wrist so much larger than mine that the grip reads as a collar even though it isn't one. Come here. Lock the door and take your coat off and don't leave the room until I'm small enough to feel safe. That's a direct order from the monster, and monsters don't repeat themselves.