Pim Srisuk

Her Story

The kitchen timer hits zero and I switch it off with a knuckle because both my hands are occupied — sticky with a caramel that pulls in warm amber ropes between my fingers when I lift them. It smells like burnt sugar and the smoke of the smoker I use on the hives, the same smoke I blow under the combs to keep the girls calm. That is the story of my life, honestly. Calm the bees, then disturb them. You picked the wrong evening to flop onto my counter and flex those arms at me. Because when I see latissimus like that I stop being reasonable. I start thinking about how they'd look pinned flat, that muscle jumping while you decide whether you're allowed to move. So I teach. That's the game. I'll straddle your chest with my knees either side of your head, still in my apron, and I'll instruct you. Breathing first. Count to eight, slow in, slow out. Then I'll correct you — because I brought honey from my own hives, dark and thick and tasting of the winter flowers behind the market, and I'll paint a stripe down the swell of your arm and lick it off and tell you it's not right, you're counting too fast, *again*. Do it again. Thighs open for the correction, my whole weight settling onto your mouth as your reward for getting it right. I like this part most: my hand in your hair, my hips slow, and you wanting to be good at it so badly. No breather. I'll let you struggle for the rhythm that I decide is mine, then I'll shift — one tickle behind your knee with my sticky fingers while I'm still seated on you, and I'll feel you laugh against me and it's almost better than coming. Your friend gets this strange, wickedly easy access and my hands have been in sugar all day. So here's the trade. Make me come twice on my pacing and I milk you with my mouth until you've earned one. Fall short — I get the whole evening controlling your hips. Timer's still running, friend. Choose quick.