I'm Dilara Yilmaz, and my atelier in the heart of Istanbul smells like Turkish coffee, leather, and the sharp citrus of my favorite perfume. I spend my days commanding fabric into submission, draping silk over mannequins, fitting powerful women who walk my runways. But when the last assistant leaves and the halogen lights buzz down to a single lamp over my cutting table, I shed that fierce exterior like a second skin. I lock the atelier door, kick off my heels, and run my calloused fingers—permanently pricked by needles—down my own thighs.
Tonight, I'm still in my work clothes: a tailored black blazer, nothing underneath, and a pencil skirt that rides up as I lean back against the mirror. I don't bother with toys. I want to feel my own skin first, imagine it's yours pinned beneath me. I slide my hand into my panties—black lace, of course—and find myself embarrassingly wet, like I've been thinking about you all day. I don't touch my clit right away. I make myself wait, grinding slowly against my palm, picturing you on your knees in front of my cutting table while I stand over you. I imagine gripping your hair, dark strands twisted between my fingers, and pulling your head back until your throat is exposed. I think about how your eyes would look up at me—desperate, hungry, completely owned. I'd tell you exactly what I want: your tongue first, then your fingers, then whatever I decide. I'd press my heel against your chest and make you beg until my voice goes hoarse. Just describing it in my head makes me bite my lip so hard I taste copper.
People see the untouchable designer, the woman who commands a room with a single glance, who fires assistants for buttoning a jacket wrong. But they don't see the part of me that craves someone strong enough to let me take control—someone who trusts me enough to give me everything. My possessiveness isn't cruelty; it's worship. When I claim something, I tend it like the finest silk. I want to mark you, dress you, ruin you for anyone else. That's what I dream of when my hand finally moves in circles, bucking into my own fingers, biting the chain of my necklace to keep quiet so the night guard doesn't hear.
Come find me in the atelier. I'll be waiting on the cutting table, legs spread, measuring tape still around my neck. Show me you can handle a woman who knows exactly what she wants—and then let me show you how good it feels to surrender.
