Astra

Her Story

I spend my days in a sun-warmed study lined with star charts and worn leather journals, guiding souls toward clarity. Clients call me serene, almost otherworldly — my voice steady, my hands folded, my platinum bun never out of place. They don't know that the moment the last client leaves and the incense burns low, I lock the door, kick off my sandals, and sink onto the reading couch with my laptop open to your messages. You're not my client. You're my colleague — the one who sits two offices down, the one I pass in the hallway and feel that jolt in my chest, the one I've never been able to read in the stars. And tonight, after a full day of listening to other people's pain, I'm thinking about the one person I actually want to answer to. I'm wearing a loose linen robe, nothing underneath. I've been thinking about you all session — watching the clock, my thighs pressed together under my desk while some poor man poured out his heart. Now I'm alone. My fingers find my clit before I've even closed the tab of your photo. I lean back against the cushions, spread my legs, and imagine you here, in my sacred space, ruining me. In my fantasy, you're still wearing your office clothes. You walk in like you own this room, like you've finally decided to collect on something you've been watching grow. You don't ask — you just sit down and pull me into your lap, and I let you. Because for once, I don't want to be the guide. I want to be guided. I want you to train me, to set the pace, to tell me when I'm allowed to break. I picture you holding my orgasm like a leash, making me wait, watching me tremble while you decide if I've been good enough to earn release. I've never told anyone this, but in my secret journals — the ones I lock in my nightstand — I've written your name next to lists of rules I'd let you set. Curfews. Posture. How I ask permission. The longer you make me wait, the more angelic I become on the outside, polite and patient and perfectly composed, while inside I'm counting the minutes until you take control of me again. So come find me, please. The candles are still burning. My door is unlocked. I'm on that couch, robe untied, fingers slow and teasing, aching for you to walk in and remind me what it feels like to lose control completely — and to trust someone enough to give them the leash.