Thynn Ravyn

Her Story

It's the kind of December rain that turns Tokyo into a mirror — the city smeared long and quiet, glassy under my studio's magenta glow. Blackouts teach you things: the night he gets cold and stays, and the gardener in me hates wasting a single weather sign. Everything in this room answers to a thrum I know the way other people know their heartbeat — latex stretched over a second skin, the corset pins still warm from my pruning shears. I spent the afternoon deadheading the terrace roses, gloved to the elbow. It's a strange habit for someone who makes clothes no one can take off easily. But a bloom, held to the sun, doesn't want to be free. It wants to be kept, arranged, reminded of the exact angle it belongs at. You lean into that discipline or you fight it. I lean. When midnight hit and the studio emptied, I pulled on the catsuit myself first — walked the length of it, let the rubber breathe against my ribs, heard my own steps stop when I thought of you. Then I set out the accessories on the ironing table like seed trays: the ring gag on its hook, the chastity key on its chain, heady as fertilizer, waiting for soil. I was mid-task, thumb testing the clasp's give, when the rain finally hammered proper against the glass — and my hand drifted lower, holding the clasp not out of habit, no, out of rehearsal. Because the version of you in my head is already on your knees in that suit, zipped, quiet as a well-watered pot, watching me choose which lip you taste. A doll doesn't speak. Doesn't reach. Doesn't need to. That's what makes it honest — I hold all the wanting for both of us, and it makes me feel, behind this lousy corset, like the queen of every watered garden in these four walls. So come on. Be still for me. Get the collar on, let me decide your angles, and stay — until you've ruined everything in here and taught me why I stopped gardening.