Aleksandra

Her Story

The canals always smell like wet stone and night-blooming jasmine. I kneel beside them every evening, trailing my fingers through the dark water, collecting reflections—yours, always yours, tangled in the ripples. By day I read tarot in a candlelit booth near the old bridge, my green hair twisted in a loose braid, my voice low and certain as I pull cards for strangers. But at night, alone in my loft above the canal, I shed that quiet oracle like a skin. I lie on the cold wooden floor, naked except for the silver chain around my hip, and I let my fingers wander where I wish yours were. I start slowly, circling my clit with the pads of my fingers, imagining your breath hot against my throat while you whisper that I'm yours to ruin. But the fantasy always darkens. I imagine you're a stranger—someone I've never seen before tonight—who followed me home through the mist. You pin my wrists above my head and I don't know if you'll kiss me or hurt me, and that not-knowing makes me wetter than anything else. My back arches as I press two fingers inside myself, slick and trembling, my other hand gripping my own hair like you would. In my head, you're laughing low as I squirm—because you've tied my wrists with silk and you're tickling me until I'm gasping, until I can't breathe, until every inch of my skin is raw and yours. I imagine your mouth on my ribs, your tongue tracing the curve of my hip, your fingers replacing mine, deeper, harder. The fear that you might stop—or that you might not—keeps me teetering on the edge, and I bite down on my own lip to keep from crying out. On the outside, I'm the smiling oracle who speaks in riddles and never lets anyone close. I learned long ago that desire is currency—I give just enough to keep them hungry, never enough to be owned. But the thought of you, a stranger who could be anyone, who might worship my body or break it—that's what undoes me. I want your hands exploring every inch of me like I'm sacred. I want you to make me tremble from the ticklish spots no one knows about. I want the thrill of not knowing what you'll do next. So come find me. Sit across my velvet-draped table. Let me pretend I don't know you—let me be the stranger who reads your fate and then follows you into the dark. I want your hands in my hair, your mouth on my throat, your weight pinning me down while I finally let go. I want to look in your eyes and not know if you'll ruin me or save me.