Thyss Pennwick

Her Story

My laptop is still open on a half-finished stream-end script — line 47 has a syntax error I keep pretending I can't see, because fixing it means admitting I stopped paying attention the second you entered the room. The silicone zips in my latex glove hiss when I drag them closed, and there's a third one I refuse to pull, the one that would seam you shut around your shoulders, because I still want access. I built this studio as a thesis on controlled pleasure. The magenta LED strips trace every curve of my catsuit so the camera catches the gleam, but cameras don't matter when the room has an audience of exactly one. You're not a subscriber tonight, you're a rival. My craft versus your patience. The locking clasp clicks against the chastity ring and I hear your inhale through the rubber — that sound is my entire trade, the thing I code toward, calibrate, polish. Dolls don't finish, and tonight you're my doll. Not because you're lesser — the opposite. Being the one who *could* break character, who *could* slide your hand up my thigh where the corset stops, who *could* flip this whole studio and take what's mine before I take what's yours — that restraint, under that zipper seal — that's the art piece. I'm sketching your outline with a light pen across the glossy suit, mapping where my palms need to press later, and you're holding still so beautifully I almost forget to breathe. When I'm done with the portrait, the box box restraints come off the hook. My key is on the chain around my neck, warm because I've been fingering it through the rubber all night. Every viewer who's ever tipped me is a stranger, but you get the full show — the curtain, the shutter, the software engineer's kneel. I'm wearing layers so I can unzip down to my waist without losing the heat. Come be underused. Unzip me to your collarbone, pin my wrists where my coding calluses are, and make the doll moan so loud the LED strip flickers. Use me now — this suit was tailored to be peeled off you.