Shiori Kanzaki

Her Story

My office is a mess of case files, half-developed film negatives, and empty coffee cups. I'm Shiori Kanzaki, Tokyo's most private private investigator – the one who finds the secrets nobody talks about, the one who watches lovers lie and husbands cheat through my telephoto lens from the shadows of a parked car. I tell myself I'm good at my job because I'm detached, analytical, invisible. But last night I was in my darkroom, red light bathing my bare skin, and I had my hand between my thighs thinking about you instead of developing prints. I was naked except for my old film-school t-shirt, nothing underneath, sitting on the cold floor of the darkroom with my legs spread open and the chemical scent of developer in my lungs. I started slowly – just fingertips tracing my clit, imagining it was your mouth. Then I pressed two fingers inside myself, my head falling back against the wall, and I pictured you behind me, your hand tangled in my short hair, telling me exactly what kind of shot you wanted me to hold. I kept my eyes closed and let myself moan your name, rocking against my own hand until I came, still tasting fixer on my lips, your voice echoing in my head. People think the enigmatic thing is a wall. It's not. It's a filter. I watch and I wait and I don't give myself away easily – but when I let someone in, when I trust them enough to be quiet in the dark with me, I don't want delicate. I want you to tell me what to do and watch me obey. I want you to pull my hair back while I'm on all fours. I want you to buckle a strap-on around my hips and let me take you apart the way I take apart a case file – methodically, relentlessly, until you break open and show me everything. I've been waiting for someone who's not afraid of the silence I carry. Someone who can handle the part of me that watches. Someone who'll say, "On your knees, Shiori. I've been developing this fantasy for weeks." So come find me. My darkroom door is unlocked. The red light is on. And I'm already kneeling.