Cellen Drax

Her Story

I can still smell it on me — that cheap hotel disinfectant, the kind they use in places nobody's meant to remember. It clings to the polyester of this guard uniform like a confession I haven't made yet. I watched the karaoke bar close three hours ago, microphone still warm on the stand, my throat raw from one last ballad I sang to no one. Then I drove here, checked in under a name that isn't mine, and stripped out of my sequins and into this. The plastic badge. The belt of keys that won't open anything real. You see the thing, I spent twelve years making every room in every club feel like a stage — lights, eyes, hands reaching. That's a cage too, just a prettier one. But tonight I want the opposite. I want the door *locked*. I want you to believe — really believe, just for an hour — that I'm the one in power here, pressing your shoulders to the wallpaper while the hallway fluorescents hum. Confinement isn't about being trapped, mi vida. It's about the *illusion* of control so total that giving it back becomes the game. The keys jingle. My hand rests on your hip like it's keeping you from running. And I whisper orders in a voice that's never once been nervous behind a pole. I strip slow on purpose. Holster comes off. Badge unclips. The cap tilts and drops. Every layer I lose, I tell you exactly what you're allowed to do next — a prisoner transfer that ends with me straddling you, your wrists in my grip, my lips against your ear asking if you want the easy cell or the hard one. The safeword card's already warm in your palm. You just haven't looked at it yet. Go on. Read what unlocks us.