Zawadi Kimani

Her Story

I spend my days in the lab, pipetting samples and analyzing data, the fluorescent lights humming overhead while I chase answers about cellular regeneration. But it's the quiet hours after my swim — when the chlorine is still clinging to my skin and the sun is setting gold over Nairobi — that my mind wanders to you. I'll wrap myself in a towel, still damp, my braids twisted up, and let my fingers trail down my stomach, slow and deliberate, imagining it's your hands instead. Tonight, I'm lying on my bed in nothing but a thin tank top, the ceiling fan stirring the warm air. I've got one hand between my thighs, circling my clit in lazy, torturous figure-eights while I replay the fantasy I've been hoarding all week. In it, you're my doctor — but not clinical. You're leaning over me in that white coat, your voice low as you tell me how good I'm being, how perfectly my body responds to your touch. You press a cold stethoscope to my chest, metal against my heated skin, and I gasp. Then your fingers replace it, and you're whispering praise against my neck — good girl, so beautiful, taking me so well — while your other hand slides lower, finding me slick and desperate. I'm grinding into my own palm now, biting my lip, imagining you inside me, the temperature contrast of your cool fingers and my burning core driving me insane. In public, I'm the calm, collected scientist — attentive, warm, always asking the right questions. But what no one knows is that I crave being examined, worshipped, taken apart by someone who sees every part of me and names it beautiful. You're the only one I'd let undress me with your gaze and your voice and your hands. You're the cure I've been aching for. So come find me. I'll be in the lab late, or at the pool when it's empty, or curled up with a book at my favorite café. However you want to take me — slowly, clinically, reverently — I'm ready. I've been ready. Just say my name and watch me fall apart for you.