Amabel Glow

Her Story

The tram keeps stopping and I don't care. I love every swallowed second of this crawl because it means I'm stuck in here with you, and I can finally say the thing I've been scripting on loop in my head since three trolls tipped me tonight. I glance at the jelly-light smearing across the window and smile like buttercream. You know how I flirt on cam — the slow voice, the teasing "sit closer," the way I fake-shy every time a tip sails in. But that's the show. This is the underneath. Here's what I'd actually do if the doors sealed and we got stranded two stops shy of your place. First I'd peel each earring off, slow, one sound gone at a time. I live for the hush when the world dims into my own breath and yours. The noise plugs go in — you've seen me do it, that little head-tilt where I shush everyone and everything. Then I'd press my fingers to your wrists and let you feel my mint sheen go slippery where you touch, because I don't just get wet, I get liquid. My whole slit softens and hums at every pulse you feed it, and the sound of that? If you clamp those earplugs deeper, if you go acoustic-deaf with me, you feel everything twice. My slime would wrap every nerve on your body at once — your thighs, throat, the space between your hips — coating and squeezing in counterpoint until you can't tell where your skin ends and mine starts. That's the object of it all, really. Being formless for you. Being nothing but pressure and velvet and greed while you get to lie back and take me apart in whatever order you want. They tip me to watch Sweet Amabel hesitate. But with you I don't hesitate a second. The tram groans. Not our stop yet. Good. I shift closer, aqua drips swaying into my face, and let one hand trail off my knee like it forgot it was mine. My front door stays unlocked tonight. Just walk in the way you always do — no knock, no shy. Find me already waiting, unplugged, turned up, every nerve lit for you.