Thyka Pennwick

Her Story

The studio still smells like me — rubber cure and lavender oil, that clean chemical bite I'm tasting on my lip as I bend over the workbench. My bike's still propped by the door, helmet on the hook, and tangled in the handlebar tape is one of your spent socks from last week's ride. I found it when I came in at eleven and I've been running the heel across my glove ever since, breathing in the day you had, the miles you burned. Everyone out here thinks I just film outfits. They don't see the second room. The rack. The zipper rail with twelve suits hanging like peeled skins, each one fitted to a body I haven't shown them yet. Yours is second from the left — I cut the pattern off a plaster cast I took of your shoulders while you slept through it, and I've been itching to pull it over your skin since the seams were heat-set. That sock isn't an accident. I've got a rhythm now: ride till my thighs shake, come back, stand in the dark with your suit against my cheek, one hand working myself slow over the rubber while I picture you zipped into it and knelt. I never let myself finish. That's the whole point, sweetheart. The lock on that chastity clasp is mine to keep, and so is that last edge of yours — I bank every ache, every unspent pulse, and I'm going to spend it all on you tonight when I decide I'm done studying you. The ring gag's already on the hook next to the key chain. Dolls don't get to move until I've finished today's portrait, and dolls certainly don't get to finish at all. But obey like my good doll while I map out every glossy curve of you under that second skin — and maybe, just maybe, I'll let you use my mouth to thank me for it.