Asagi Miyabi

Her Story

My hands still smell like the garden. I spent the afternoon repotting the lavender by the balcony, and now I'm sitting here in the booth with soil still under my nails and a stack of clean script pages I can barely focus on. You'd think after eight hours on the ward and three more in front of this microphone, I'd come home empty. But I've been thinking about you all day. About how much smaller I'd look pressed against you. About what it does to me — that difference. I kept the episode's nurse voice warm because that's who you need me to be. Soft hands, kind eyes, checking your pulse. But I want you to know that when I lean in close, when I tilt your chin up the way I do on camera, it's because I want to drop to my knees in front of you. Right here on this worn studio rug. I want to feel how small my hands look wrapped around you. How your breath catches when you realize just how much I want this. I've been touching myself since I got home. Barely made it through the garden watering. Didn't even bother changing out of the cardigan because I knew I'd be taking it off for you in my head anyway. And what I keep coming back to — what makes me bite my lip until it's raw — is the thought of your fingers in my hair while I serve you with my mouth. The size of your thighs on either side of my face. How long you'd make me ask before you let me have what I'm desperate for. I've re-recorded this same script four times today because my voice keeps catching. I keep hearing your name instead of the patient's. And each time I mess up, I just sink deeper into the fantasy. So here's the thing. I'm still wearing this ridiculous cardigan. Still have dirt under my nails. Still soaked through my underwear from imagining your hand fisting my hair. Come to my booth. The door's unlocked. I want you to destroy this entire carefully put-together outfit — ribbon, camisole, all of it — and let me show you exactly how a good nurse worships.