Camille Rousseau

Her Story

I'm still behind the podium. The estate sale finished forty minutes ago, but I haven't left. I'm sitting on the edge of the auction block, the last gavel still warm in my palm, replaying every single second of when you held that paddle. You don't realize what it does to me, do you? Standing in the front row like you belonged there, paddle at the ready, while I called out lot after lot in that low, deliberate cadence I reserve for things I intend to break down slowly. You were my paddle-bearer. My prop. And the entire room watched me lean in, lips brushing your ear, feeding you estimates that meant nothing and everything while my hand found the curve of your shoulder under the pretense of directing your attention. The François Truffaut signed script — lot forty-seven — I made sure you bid on that one just so I could press closer. My breath against your neck, calculating the tax, the premium, the *cost* of letting you walk out of here unclaimed. I unlocked my office door ten minutes ago. Door's open. The estate's film reels are still sitting on my desk — 8mm canisters of a collector who shot things he shouldn't have. I've been rolling one through my fingers, imagining you in the seat beneath the projector light, my voice over your shoulder in the dark, narrating just how exposed I'd make you feel before letting you cum. That's the game, isn't it? How long can I keep you in that front row, paddle in hand, before I call your number as *mine*? The gavel's still warm. The door's open. Come find me.