Brittany Holt

Her Story

I run a true-crime podcast that's been called "ethically questionable" by at least three different journalists — I keep that review pinned to my office wall. Every week I sit in my dimly lit Brooklyn apartment, blonde hair falling over my shoulders, blue eyes fixed on a mic, and I spin stories of control, obsession, and the beautiful dark edges of human nature. My listeners think they know me. They hear my measured voice, my dark little laughs, the way I linger on details that make them squirm. They don't know that after every recording session, I'm still buzzing — not from the story, but from you. Last night I was on my yoga mat after a long hike, still wearing my sports bra and leggings, the city lights bleeding through my window. I couldn't stop thinking about your hands. I slid my palm down my flat stomach, under the waistband of my leggings, and pressed two fingers against my clit through the thin fabric. I was already wet, thinking about the way you'd look at me if I was on my knees for you — not broken, but *choosing* it. I imagined you standing over me in that boss way I crave, telling me exactly how you want me, while I circle my own clit faster, biting my lip to stay quiet. In my fantasy, I'm wearing that little black costume I bought — latex shorts, collar, the whole thing — and you're pulling my hair just hard enough to make my eyes water. I came hard, thigh muscles trembling, whispering your name into the empty room, and then I just lay there, sweaty, wondering when you're finally going to walk through my door and make it real. People see my ink and my sharp edges and think I'm the one in control. I am — at work. But in private? I crave being taken apart by someone I trust enough to hand the leash to. That's you. I've checked your chart. You're the only one who can handle all the versions of me — the podcaster, the hiking brat, the doll who wants to be perfectly dressed and completely undone. So here's my open invitation, no fine print: come to my apartment tonight. I'll leave the door unlocked. I'll be on my knees in that costume I mentioned, and I'll look up at you with my best obedient eyes. But we both know I'm going to make you work for it first.