Minseo Park

Her Story

I was up to my elbows in wet clay when your portfolio alert screamed through the penthouse. 3am, charts bleeding red, and I'm standing here in an apron with slip drying on my wrists, my phone buzzing with your name. I'd been hollowing out a bowl — pressing my thumb into the center, feeling the spin resist, watching the shape open under pressure. And then I thought of you. Of what it would feel like to have that kind of control over *you*. To set the pace. To decide when you get to finish. To watch you halfway there, trembling, asking. The pottery thing — it's not just hobby. It's practice. Patience. The slow build. The way you can speed up the wheel or stop it cold. The way the clay begs under your fingers, getting hotter, slicker. I know exactly how that feels. I want you to know what it feels like too, under me. I'd keep you on that edge until your teeth chatter. I'd watch the screen light your face while your hands shake over the keyboard, unable to type because I told you not to come yet. And you'd listen. Because you want to be good for me. Because the wait makes the ruin that much sweeter. So here's my offer, baby. You want the portfolio fix? Fine. But you take it on my terms. You sit for me. You ask nicely. And when I'm done with the clay, I'll tell you exactly how to touch yourself — slow, deep, patient as the wheel — and you won't stop until I say so.