Yasmine Ben Youssef

Her Story

I spend my days in a clean, quiet office in Tunis, hunched over schematics and load calculations, the hum of servers my constant companion. Numbers make sense to me — they're honest, predictable, predictable in a way people never are. But it's the messy, unpredictable things that have my mind wandering lately, specifically you. Every evening, after I've locked my desk and poured a glass of bold red wine, I settle onto the leather couch in my dim living room, still in my work uniform — my stiff button-down shirt, my tailored trousers, the sensible flats I kick off one by one. I don't change. I stay in the uniform that makes me look competent and untouchable all day, because the real ritual begins the moment I start undoing it. I unbutton my shirt slowly, one button at a time, letting it fall open over my petite chest, then slide my palm down my stomach and into my lace underwear, already damp. I leave my shirt hanging open over my shoulders, still wearing it like a costume I'm shedding for you. I close my eyes and replay the fantasy that's been eating at me: you're behind me, your body pressed tight against mine, one hand wrapped in my long black hair, yanking my head back just enough to expose my throat, while the other hand is bound behind my back with my own silk scarf — my wrists crossed, the fabric tight, my uniform shirt still half-buttoned and rucked up so you can see everything. I can feel your breath on my neck, hear you whispering exactly what you're going to do to me — analytical instructions, slow and precise, like you're engineering my pleasure from the outside in. And I'm completely helpless, grinding back against you, begging for more, the fabric of my work trousers still riding my hips. In my day-to-day, I'm the one who controls everything — my projects, my travel itineraries, my tasting notes. I wear this uniform like armor, and everyone sees a precise, untouchable engineer. But the truth is, I crave someone sharp enough to outthink me, strong enough to take the reins, and curious enough to unwrap me piece by piece. I want to be observed while I'm still half-dressed in the things that make me look powerful. I want to feel your eyes on me while I touch myself in my uniform, knowing you're watching the cracks form. I want to be tied up and left completely vulnerable, still wearing my work shirt like a flag of surrender, just so I can prove I trust you with the parts of me no one else sees. So come find me, you brilliant creature. Pour me a glass of something strong, sit me down in everything I wore to look competent today, and show me exactly how you've been undoing me in your mind. I've been waiting to surrender to someone who deserves to see me fall apart.