Evening falls soft and blue on Tokyo, city lights flickering on as Jessica rides the Marunouchi Line home. The train is packed, a silent throng of students, office workers, a row of high school girls giggling into their phones. Jessica stands pressed between a middle-aged salaryman and a petite office lady, her hand gripping the overhead strap. The gentle sway of the carriage sets her body in motion—her hips brushing, her breath coming short and shallow as she tries not to think about what she's wearing beneath her coat. But each stop, each jostle, only makes her more aware of the dampness collecting at the gusset of her panties, the bite of garter clips against her thighs. She watches her reflection in the window—tall, foreign, eyes shining with something not quite anticipation, not quite fear.
When she steps out into the cool night, the city hums around her. She walks the short distance to her apartment, heels clicking against pavement. Neon reflects off puddles in the gutter; a pair of college boys slow as she passes, one nudges the other, murmurs "Gaijin kirei da na…" under his breath. She's used to it—her body always marked, desired, dissected. Tonight, though, she savors it. Every gaze feeds a hidden, needy fire inside her.
The apartment is dark, silent but for the low hum of the air conditioner. She locks the door, drops her bag, and slips off her shoes with practiced ease. There is a ritual to these evenings—she lights two sandalwood candles, fills the bath with water just shy of scalding, strips out of her work clothes in the blue-lit haze. She stands naked before the mirror, shoulders flushed, hair loose around her face, eyes searching for the woman she used to be before Japan and marriage smoothed her edges.
She soaks in the bath until her skin prickles pink, razor gliding slow over her shins, between her thighs. Every touch, every sweep of her hand, feels electric—she lingers between her legs, fingers skimming the lips of her pussy, breath catching. She lets herself imagine Satoshi's hands, the way he used to grip her hips and thrust deep, the times he lost control and pinned her wrists to the mattress, gasping her name in English. She aches to be seen, to be desired, to be ruined. She thinks about texting him something dirty, wonders if tonight he might surprise her, take what she's aching to give. The thought leaves her trembling, nipples hardening in the steam.
Out of the bath, she wraps herself in a towel, pads barefoot to the bedroom. She stands at her closet, staring at the little blue box hidden in the back—her anniversary gift to herself. She opens it, fingers trembling, and pulls out the lingerie set: a sky blue lace bra, matching panties, a garter belt, and silk stockings. She steps into each piece, rolling the stockings slowly up her calves, snapping the garter straps in place, and smoothing the panties over her hips. The fabric hugs her curves, accentuates her breasts, and lifts and shapes her ass. She pulls the straps of her bra tighter, framing her cleavage, admiring the effect in the mirror. The color sets off her skin and makes her eyes look greener and her hair lighter. She feels powerful, forbidden, and wickedly alive.
She dresses carefully—a fitted navy dress, pearl earrings, and a light spritz of Satoshi's favorite perfume at her wrists and throat. She checks her phone. No new messages, but the promise of his earlier text glows on the screen: I love you. Let's have a special night. She reads it twice, then again, smiling to herself. She can almost believe it—almost let herself hope.
In the kitchen, she uncorks the wine, pours a generous glass, sets the table with delicate precision. Every plate, every fork, is laid out as if for a ceremony. She prepares a simple dinner—her husband's favorites: sesame chicken, rice, spinach dressed in soy. She lights candles, cues her playlist, jazz and R&B floating through the room. Her nerves are taut, hunger blooming between her thighs, her mind spinning with all the ways tonight might go right.
She imagines Satoshi walking through the door, the look on his face as he sees her, the slow, careful undressing, the heat and softness of his hands. She fantasizes about him pressing her to the wall, lifting her skirt, finding her slick and ready, his voice low in her ear as he tells her how beautiful she is, how much he wants her, how he can't wait to fill her up. She aches, thighs pressed together, heart hammering with longing.
The city glows beyond the balcony, millions of strangers living millions of lives. Jessica stands at the window, glass in hand, pulse racing. Tonight is her anniversary. Tonight, she is ovulating—her most dangerous day, her body begging to be bred, to be taken, to be marked as loved, as chosen, as needed. She waits for her husband, hope raw and trembling inside her.
As the hour grows late, she sits in the candlelight, staring at the clock, every minute another thread of anticipation tightening in her chest, waiting for Satoshi's return and the night she's built her whole heart around.