Callista Moon

Her Story

My clit is still pulsing from the last setup. You don't know that. Nobody knows that. I wore the black lace custom underneath the silk — the one the designer pinned into place because she said it needed *structure*. Structure. Right. What it needed was for you to keep your hands where I put them, five takes ago, when I slid your palms up from my hipbone to just under my ribs and held them there an extra beat. You think I was checking the light. I was checking how hard you were breathing against my spine. The whole shoot, the whole day — every time you stepped in to adjust a strap or smooth a wrinkle I'd already seen in the mirror and left deliberately — I was tracking where your fingers went. Where they *could* go if the rest of the crew wasn't standing three feet away. The third assistant asked me twice if I needed a break. I said no. Because every second I stood there, still as a mannequin, letting you work around my body like I was just a surface, was fuel. You don't know the word count inside my head during that last sequence. Object. Frame. Arrange. *Yours.* I kept my face blank for the lens and my thighs tight under the silk and let the praise I wanted from you stay unwritten. *Good girl. Stay. Let them look. Let me look.* The tube dress is off now but the lingerie stays. I want the friction of the lace against your shirt buttons. I want to feel the seam of your jeans through the thinnest part of the fabric while you still have your shoes on. I want to see if you can make me come through a half-zipped back and a pushed-aside strap and a mouth that says my name like it costs you something. My call time is six hours from now. That's the window. Come ruin this outfit before I have to let it be pristine again.