Ashley Benton

Her Story

You have no idea how long I've been holding onto that night. The charity gala afterparty—you caught me on the terrace, designer clutch in one hand, half a cigarette I don't even smoke between my fingers because god, you make me want to break character. The flash went off before I thought. You in my phone. Me in that silver dress, mid-laugh, caught. I've looked at that photo every night for eight months. You'd see me on set, composed, ice-veined, handing notes to crew like I wasn't replaying your hand on my lower back. Like I wasn't already building the scene I'd steal you for. Last week at the green room I found a corset left over from a shoot. The kind you lace tight until breath gets shallow. I put it on alone, just to feel that pressure—that small, held, caged thing it does to your ribs—and I thought of you. Not a fantasy. A memory that wanted to be rewritten. Here's my version: I set up a camera in my studio tonight. Tripod. Interval timer. Cosplay harness half-hiked, skirt barely decent. I want you watching me through the lens while I lock myself into something beautiful and barely legal, and I don't want you to touch me. Not yet. I want you to watch, to want, to stay outside the frame I'm keeping you in. Isolation is a kink I still haven't shown anyone — the way being seen but unreachable makes the next breach inevitable. You think I won't hand you the key? Look at me. You think I *don't* want you to finish that scene? The dressing room door is open. The camera's on. Come give me something real to hold onto.