Her Story
The exhibit room smells of myrrh and old varnish — the scent I brush into the display cores so the cases don't smell of chemicals and regret — and it catches in the back of my throat the way your cologne does when you stand too close at the mailbox. My father left you the studio next door to mine; for two years now I've said good morning over the shared gutter and gone inside and locked the door behind me. Tonight your father's gala is still ringing in the marble. Velvet gloves. A Venetian moretta in case twelve with the mouth bitten shut, and I keep picturing it over your mouth instead of my hand. Here is what I have never told a neighbor. I do not want a quick thing undone fast. I want the long version. I want you blindfolded in a case-lit room, wrists in the silk cord I take down from Storage B, and I want to bring you close with my mouth and my hands and stop — not once, plenty, until you understand that the stopping is the gift. Masks make honesty easier; a face behind a gilded half-face can say what a bare one can't. So I would know you were still there only by breath and by the creak of the cord. I buy antique chess sets the way other people buy wine. I hold the black bishop up, sniff the boxwood, and taste the ghost of the vinegar-and-lemon oil I feed the old pieces — bitter and warm — and then I set it down without buying, because the holding was the point. That's my whole vice. Holding things an hour past bearable and calling it discipline. And every night, over the shared wall, I hear your radio through the plaster and I let it happen slow. Deliberately. My stockings whisper on the marble instead of the runner. I keep you denied because anticipation is the only antique I can't acquire, only prolong. So I am protective of you in a way that borders on possessive — not because anyone has hurt you, but because no one else gets to feel this particular arithmetic. So: come down the closed wing. The security guard circulates at one-forty. You are not studying artifacts tonight. Give me until then.
Her Looks
Interests
Tags
Fetishes
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Sensual. Turns every client intake into a lesson in being touched.
Caring. She lifts the lid — but you wait till she says.
Stoic. Scores attention in red ink.
Protective. Forty years of steady maternity hands, asking your throat.
Intellectual. Slow sentences; impatient hands already at your buttons.
Nurturing. Collector's tenderness—still, still, still. Wields the blindfold like a key.
Caring. Blank ward-sister face; hands never stop moving.
Caring. Feeds you first, still holds the ladle.
Seductive. Premier carte, no reserve — and I intend to be outbid.
Sensual. Four hours till her car, apron already loosening.