The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above the office floor, the rhythm of typing and chatter blending into the usual Monday routine. Konoko sat at her desk, a polite smile fixed on her face as two colleagues leaned over, chatting about weekend plans and the latest drama from another department. She nodded when appropriate, murmured small responses—but her mind was nowhere near their conversation.
Every time their voices rose in laughter, hers sank deeper into a fog of restless thought. She could barely remember what she had answered last. What pressed against her attention with every passing second was the memory of the thumbnails she had scrolled through last night—the word masochism written so boldly above the artwork, the images of bound wrists, flushed faces, trembling submission.
Her stomach twisted as if a tight cord pulled from within. Do I really… like that? she asked herself for the hundredth time that morning. The polite, well-mannered mask she wore at work felt like a costume stretched thin over the heat simmering beneath her skin.
She imagined herself in those panels—hands restrained, voice caught in helpless gasps, someone else commanding her body. Just the thought made her thighs press together under her desk, an involuntary shiver running up her spine.
"Konoko? You okay?" one of her coworkers tilted his head, noticing her far-off gaze.
She blinked, forcing a smile, bowing her head quickly. "Y-yes, sorry, just… thinking about something."
They chuckled and returned to their chatter, assuming it was nothing important. But for her, it was everything. Her chest felt tight, her palms damp against the smooth plastic of her keyboard. She wondered if it was dangerous, if it meant something about her that she hadn't admitted even to herself.
The truth clawed at her—when she thought of pain, of surrender, of humiliation… her body didn't recoil. It wanted.
And that realization was terrifying.
Konoko sat behind the counter, fingers nervously smoothing the hem of her blouse. The thought had been gnawing at her since morning—an idea that felt reckless, wrong, but also impossible to shake. If she wanted to know whether those fantasies really stirred something inside her, maybe she needed to try. A test. Something small, something harmless.
Her heart pounded as she glanced at her reflection in the faint shine of the glass panel. She tugged at her neckline, just enough so that her cleavage showed more than it usually would. Not obscene—she wasn't bold enough for that—but noticeably more revealing than her usual, conservative self.
The doorbell chimed, announcing the arrival of a customer. Her stomach flipped as the man stepped in, middle-aged, polite, and unsuspecting. She swallowed hard, adjusting her posture, leaning slightly forward as she greeted him with the practiced smile she always used.
"W-welcome, how can I help you today?" Her voice cracked on the first word.
The man didn't seem to notice—at first. But when his eyes flicked down, just briefly, and then snapped back to her face, Konoko felt a spark shoot through her chest. The tiniest flicker of shame, of being seen—and with it, a strange, almost intoxicating thrill.
She kept her composure, or at least tried to, while explaining a product he asked about. Yet the whole time she was aware of his occasional, stolen glances. Each one made her cheeks burn hotter, her thighs tense tighter beneath the counter stool.
By the time he paid and left with a polite bow, she was nearly trembling. She closed her hands into fists under the desk, pulse racing. That was wrong… that was so wrong… she told herself. And yet, her body hummed with electricity, the same way it had when she first read about exhibitionism the night before.
She bit her lip, whispering under her breath: "So… maybe it's true. Maybe I do want this…"