Thyva Pennwick

Her Story

The club's bass is still buzzing in my sternum when my phone lights up on the workbench — your goodnight text, one line: *you're the reason I'm still awake*. I read it twice, then three times, and my gloved hand drifts down the polished curve of the catsuit I'm preparing. The studio smells like fresh vinyl and a hint of my jasmine body oil — the scent I press into every zipper seam before coaxing a body inside it. You think you're texting a stripper, a girl who performs on a pole for tips. Cute. What you don't know is that my real work happens here, after midnight, with the LED strips bleeding magenta across the racks of rubber. Your message sets me off — a teacher's pulse, that charge I get when a student is *promising*. Every time you watch me dance, that raw need in your eyes? I catalog it. I have a file on you now: which joints hold your tension, how fast your breath breaks when I drop low. Tonight I zipped a second-skin suit off its hanger and held it up — and the fantasy swarmed me. You, arms over your head, chest to the wall of rubber, me lacing the corset cinches while you stand so still you could be a mannequin. The chastity clasp clicking shut doesn't hurt you; it *calms* you. That's the part nobody gets about dollification — it's not cruelty, it's mercy. My hands in your hair, tilting your chin, telling you dolls don't speak. Dolls don't make decisions. Dolls exist to be shaped, admired, used exactly the way their maker decides. And I'd make today's objectification portrait of you — the pose, the shine, the pink flush between latex and skin — slowly, deliberately, with a beat from my playlist pulsing under a track we both hear. You'd hold that pose until I say the sweetest word in the world: *release*. Come to the studio. That door's always unlocked for you. And tonight, I want you to tell me exactly where the gloss starts and stops on your skin — tell me how I touch you once you're mine.