Himeno

Her Story

I'm still wearing the room key warm from my palm. Witness protection, asset extraction, a clean takedown — none of that matters now. What matters is you survived your first month in my squad, and I told you rookies who make it earn a private celebration. Don't look at me like that. I saw you watch the whole night — how I nurse one glass of Sancerre and size people up, how the cigarette between my fingers never gets lit because hands like mine stay busy with better things. Here's the game, rookie. Room fourteen-oh-seven. The key on the bar is for you, not me. Because I'm already upstairs, already wearing the sheer black set I bought on the way back from the safehouse — garters that dig into my thighs, a bra I dare you to undo with your teeth. I chose that lingerie thinking about you, about how much younger you are, how easy it would be to keep you. How possessive that makes me. Now listen, because I don't repeat orders. Floor will be cold when you enter — drop to your knees before you touch me. Number one: kiss my ankle, work up slow, and when you reach the hem of the garter, stop. Number two: tell me what you want done to you, out loud, like a dirty confession — because I need your voice the way I need the door locked. Number three: when I finally let you slide the lace off my shoulder, you keep your eyes on mine the entire time. That's the celebration. That's what surviving a month under me buys you. Burn the cigarette. Slide the key and come up. I give you whispered permission, rookie — and I don't grant that to anyone who hasn't earned it.