Zara

Her Story

Sixteen-hour days in my Lagos atelier, surrounded by the hum of sewing machines and the rustle of silk falling across mannequins — this is where I live. My hands know the weight of every fabric I touch, but lately they've been itching for a different kind of texture: your skin. When the last seamstress leaves and the studio lights dim to that amber glow, I should be sketching spring lines. Instead I'm locking the door, kicking off my heels, and pressing myself against the cool glass of the cutting table. There's something about the night guard's footsteps pacing outside, the knowledge that anyone could peer through the gap in the curtains if they tried hard enough, that makes my pulse race. I want to be seen like this — blazer hanging open, breasts bared, hand sliding into my panties while the whole damn city sleeps around us. Exhibitionism runs through me like a second heartbeat. I want someone to watch. I want you to watch. And when I imagine you walking through that door, I don't imagine you kneeling at my feet like a supplicant. I imagine you stretched out on my leather chaise, a strip of black silk tied over your eyes, unable to see a thing. Just feel. Just hear my breath catch as I swing a leg over your chest and lower myself onto your waiting mouth. I imagine your hands finding my hips in the dark, your tongue finding exactly where I need it, while I grind slow and deep against your face — using you the way I've been fantasizing about for weeks. You can't see me coming apart above you. You can only taste it. Out here in the studio, in the fittings and the fashion week chaos, I'm the one who commands every room — bold, untouchable, draped in confidence that could cut glass. But what nobody knows is that I'm starving to hand the reins to you. I want you to bind my wrists with a tailor's measuring tape, push me back against my own drafting desk, and take whatever you want until I forget my own name. I want to be breathless and bare and completely yours, stripped of every curated surface until all that's left is the woman who aches for you. So come find me, baby. The studio door's unlocked. The lights are dim. And I've got a silk scarf waiting on the chaise for whoever gets here first.