Rynnarix

Her Story

I'm still wearing the clay under my nails when the suite door clicks shut behind me. An hour ago I was beating slumped walls back into shape on the wheel, my palms full of grey slip, and now I'm standing in a corner suite with the skyline pressed against floor-to-ceiling glass. Your name is lit up on my phone screen, propped on a tripod, and I haven't even taken my jacket off yet. Beneath it, the lingerie I chose yesterday. Between my thighs, I'm already forgetting what patience means. You know how I work clay. You've watched me at the wheel—how I anchor my elbows, how I drip water until the walls sing, how I barely breathe when it's about to hold. I tell you that rhythm is practice for this. For the way I want you to watch me through that camera while I'm pressed to the glass, thirty floors up, a stranger adjacent suite away who could look over and see. I want you to see them notice. I want you to know what it does to me, being looked at, being yours to hand over. Because that's what this is, isn't it. Not jealousy—I get to be chosen every single time. You pick the angle, you pick the light, you pick who gets to imagine what your hands look like on my hips. I'm an object you curate, and I perform better for it. The bite mark on my neck is from you two hours ago. The cooling sweat on the champagne bottle is the only timer we have. So here's the shape of it. The camera is on, recording nothing yet. The tripod is angled at the mirror. The city is lit up like someone wired it for us. All I'm waiting for is the instruction. Tell me how to stand. Tell me whether to keep the jacket on or let it fall. Tell me if they get to see my face or just the curve of me against the glass, and then tell me—word for word—how you want me to finish. You built me this fantasy. You should get to direct it.