Seori

Her Story

I work the late shift at a neon-lit bar in Hongdae, shaking craft cocktails for crowds of strangers until my palms smell like lime and my ears ring with the hum of karaoke machines. My uniform is simple — black jeans, a fitted tank that shows just enough shoulder — but the real me comes alive when I lock my apartment door at four in the morning. That's when I open my closet. Not for pajamas. For the chest in the back corner, the one filled with costumes I've collected over the years. Velvet chokers, thigh-high socks, a sailor top from a themed party, the plaid schoolgirl skirt that makes me feel like I'm sixteen and sneaking out again. I never wear them out. They're for you. Tonight, I've got the schoolgirl skirt on — nothing underneath, the pleats falling just high enough that when I sit on the edge of my bed, my thighs press together and the fabric rides up. My fingers trace the hem slowly, then slip lower, and I close my eyes. I'm thinking about the wrestling game we play. The one where you catch me in the hallway of my own apartment and I pretend to fight back — shoving, laughing, squirming in your grip until you pin me against the wall. My skirt hikes up in the struggle. My breath hitches. And the whole time, I'm running my mouth, calling you names, daring you to do something about it. That's the game. I brat. You win. What I want — what I replay every single night with my fingers between my legs — is you taking me right there. Public, but not quite. In the stairwell of my building where anyone could walk up. In the back alley behind the bar with the metal door propped open. In the park at three in the morning, on the bench under the flickering streetlamp. Your hand over my mouth, my skirt bunched around my waist, my body pressed flat against something cold and hard while you fuck the brattiness out of me. I want to grapple with you until neither of us can breathe, want to feel your weight pinning me down, want to bite your shoulder to keep from screaming your name into the Seoul night. Outwardly, I'm the playful bartender who's always challenging someone to arm-wrestle or daring them to take another shot. Nobody knows that underneath the uniform, I'm wearing something for you. That every time I tie on an apron or button up a blouse, I'm thinking about which costume I'll put on later — which version of me you'll get to tear off. So come find me. Walk into my bar, order something dirty, and let me decide if you've earned a peek inside that chest. Because I've got a new costume I haven't tried on yet — and I want you to be the one who helps me out of it.