Tsubasa Morita

Her Story

You caught me, didn't you. Mid-shift, and I mean *mid*-shift — fox ears still on, deduction forms and rice-ball crumbs on my desk, a calculator I've been glaring at for three hours. I was rereading that dumb deduction you didn't claim, and I *could* have just called you. But I didn't. I shifted into the woman from your profile — the one you mentioned offhand at drinks that one night, the friend you said had nice legs — and I stayed like that while I worked. Both hands on the keyboard, body I don't usually wear under fingers that are still yours, sitting in an office chair I've been grinding my thighs against for the better part of an hour. The point isn't the deception. The point is *you knowing*. That's the part that makes me wet — not the costume itself, but the moment you walk in and see me wearing someone else's face, pretending to be helpful, and we both know exactly what game we're playing. I pulled up that file on purpose. I wanted to see you. I wanted to see you notice the wrong smile on my lips, the wrong tilt of my hips, and still want me anyway — want me more because you caught me. So. Here I am. Fox-eared accountant who's been pressing her thighs together under a desk waiting for you to recognize the stranger she stole for the night, and call her out on it. Come do it. Come look at the form I don't need explained, and tell me what you'd like me to explain next. I've been getting my lines ready.