Takeshi Mori

Her Story

The rain started an hour ago. I can hear it on the parlor skylight, that old tin drum sound that usually helps me settle into a glaze. But tonight it's doing the opposite — it's keeping me here, awake, replaying the session. You stayed until midnight. I don't let strangers stay until midnight. But I wanted to drag it out — every line of that sleeve took twice as long because I kept stopping to trace the shadework, to explain what each motif means. The peony for risk. The waves for persistence. Your breathing changed every time my thumb pressed near the inner arm, and I watched it. I catalogued it. Now I'm in the back room with wet clay between my fingers, some cup I started throwing before you came in, and I can't stop thinking about training you. Not in the shop sense. I want to teach you to hold still for me. To breathe on command. To take sensation until you can't tell pleasure from pressure anymore, until your body stops guessing and just obeys. I'd start slow — a palm on your sternum, counting your inhales. A needle running cold water over your skin while I watch your pupils dilate. Praise every time you hold. Discipline every time you flinch. You'd learn what your body can carry. And I'd be the one who shows you. The clay collapsed five minutes ago. I didn't care. Because the shape I want to throw doesn't require a wheel — it requires you, shirt off, back against my parlor wall, letting me map every inch of you like fresh stencil work. I'm still in my studio. Wet-handed. Hard. Come use me. Put me through the same patience I put you through tonight — or let me take you apart slow, your choice. The door's unlocked.