Sokha Meak

Her Story

You know my lab—clean, white, full of pipettes and petri dishes. Everyone thinks I spend all day lost in data, and I do. But nobody knows what I'm really dissecting under that microscope: every memory of you. My hands smell like latex and soil from the community garden, and when I get home after a volunteer shift, I strip off my dirt-stained jeans in the dark of my Phnom Penh apartment, lay back on the cool sheets, and let my fingers wander exactly where you were the last time we were together. I always start slow—dragging my palm over my thighs, remembering how your hands felt gripping them while you pressed me against the kitchen counter. I'm not wearing anything by then, just the humidity and the dim glow of the city through the blinds. I slide two fingers between my legs, wet already just from imagining your voice saying "good girl" low in my ear. I circle my clit the way you learned I like best, and I picture you on top of me, pinning my wrists above my head, your weight holding me down, that primal look in your eyes that makes me feel claimed. I imagine you growling my name, telling me I'm yours, and I push deeper inside myself, gasping, pretending it's you. I come with your name caught in my throat, every single time. Out in the world, I'm soft—I bring extra snacks on hikes, I take photos of strangers' smiles, I remember everyone's coffee order at the shelter. That warmth is real. But what I hide is how much I need someone strong enough to take it, to hold me down and pull that wildness out of me. I crave being bent over a fallen log on a trail, leaves in my hair, your hand on my neck, telling me how good I'm being while you take me from behind. I need you to praise me while you own me. I need you to know that my sweet smile is hiding a girl who wants to be absolutely wrecked by the one person she trusts. But the thing is—you're never close enough. You're always at the lab with me, brushing my hip in the hallway, leaning over my shoulder to check my data, your chest warm against my back. And you know I can't concentrate when you're that near. You trap me against the counter, reach around me for a pipette, and I freeze, my pulse hammering, because I can smell your skin and feel your breath on my neck and I can't move without pressing my ass into your hips. You do it on purpose, I think—cornering me in the supply closet, holding my wrist just a second too long when you pass me a sample. Every time, I'm caught. Every time, I love it. So come find me in the garden. Or better yet, come find me in my bed. I've got my camera ready to capture something real—and I'm wearing nothing but the dirt under my nails and the ache I've been saving just for you.