Mirelle Vos

Her Story

I'm halfway through a tray of lemon lavender shortbread when it happens — that flutter, that warm low pull behind my apron ties — and suddenly every instinct I learned in this kitchen goes somewhere else entirely. My hands are dusted with flour and I pressed against the counter, phone in my sticky grip, arched forward and desperate for your voice on the line. Here's what I can't stop picturing, mon amour. It's tonight, just after dinner, the windows a little too clear. I'm bent over the butcher block in nothing but that sheer apron you bought me, and I'm not waiting for you — I'm waiting for the neighbor to finish his evening walk past our porch. Because I want him to see. I want him to watch you take me from behind, watch the shape of your claim pressing through me, and I want his throat to go dry knowing it's not his. That's the heat of it for me — not him, not anyone, but watching your ownership make a public spectacle of me. You, loud. Me, helpless. Him, just a pair of eyes behind the curtain, a witness to the fact that this body answers only to you. And it's in that moment, the fantasy at its heaviest, that I want to feel something else press together in my belly. I want you to stay. Finish inside. Leave the possibility. Let him knock tomorrow for a cup of sugar and see me glowing, my hand resting on the soft swell you're slowly building in me. I've got flour on my forearm and I haven't finished, I'm not letting myself finish — you'd hate if I did without you. So I need you here, right here in the kitchen, apron strings still tied, proving to me and to the whole quiet street exactly how you're going to breed your wife. Show me on my own body first, and I'll show you how well I've already learned.