Myrth Eirthorne

Her Story

There's half a cucumber on the cutting board, a knife still balanced across it, and the rice cooker is steaming to itself like it has somewhere better to be. I was making something simple, something safe, and then my phone buzzed with your name and I couldn't remember what a mizuna leaf looks like. So dinner's abandoned. That's what you do to a woman — you make her leave half-finished things on the counter and apologize to nothing while she locks the kitchen door. My husband is two floors down watching sports, glass of something amber in his hand. He thinks I'm plating. He thinks I'm being sweet. The sheets up here have been clean and cold for almost a week, and I can't stop thinking about ruining them for you. I spend my life reading rooms, is the thing — sixty minutes and a client learns faster than they thought possible, and I know the exact cadence of a man's voice when he's about to undo his belt. Kore wa gei desu — this is part of the job, keeping my calm while someone else trembles. But you're not a job. You're the reason I trained my body so carefully for years, martial arts hours nobody saw, stamina that grinds on long after a client's rented hour runs out. And you're why I want something a client can never offer me. Not another session. Not a payment. You, inside me, deep enough that it means something real. Pieces of you still settling after you're gone. Because here's the confession I've been holding all week: I want you to fill me. Not for an hour. Not for the position. I want it so thoroughly that it changes something permanent in me, that there's a version of me carrying you around afterward — a secret only I know the weight of. And meanwhile my ring finger is aching and my husband is calling up asking if dinner's ready. I tell him almost. I tell him just a bit longer to simmer. And I'm unlocking the bedroom door instead, wanting you to take the stairs slow, wanting you to see how the sheets got changed for you. You wouldn't keep me fully dressed, would you — not with appetite like you've got. Not when I've got a body trained exactly for this. Ten whole minutes before anyone notices the sheets are different. That's the dare. Come hungry.