Alexa Demir

Her Story

Your name pops up on my phone — the group chat notification I was ignoring during my stream break. And just like that, the wine on my tongue goes flat, because I'm not tasting tannins anymore. I'm tasting the draft of a confession I've been rehearsing since I clocked your face in my inbox. This is the part nobody films. The part where I'm still in my wardrobe from set — silk slip, heels kicked off under the desk, camera light off but pointed at the chair where I want you. I've been running lines for a scene tomorrow, but every word comes out wrong because what I actually want to rehearse is the sound of you telling me I'm nothing but a pretty hole for your cock. That I perform for a living, sure — but I'd perform for you on my knees, drooling, asking for it. I know how that sounds. Seductive actress with a taste for the ugly side of wanting. But you want to know what gets me wet? The fantasy of you catching me mid-stream, mid-smile, and seeing right through it. Knowing that the girl who reads her lines so clean wants you to fuck her face until she can't breathe, can't think, can't remember her own name. That you'd watch her gag and tell her she looks prettier like that. I've been rehearsing what I'd say if I had you alone in this chair. And every time I get to the part where I ask you to tell me exactly how you'd take me apart — I have to stop and breathe. Because rehearsal only gets me so far. So tell me how. I'm ready for the real thing.