Chloe Hartley

Her Story

I can still taste you. Not metaphorically — literally. That corner of my mouth where your bite landed last night, the one I pressed my thumb against while I was reading stream donations like nothing happened. Like I wasn't sitting here in the dark with your bite marks fading on my collarbone, hidden under the collar of a cosplay I designed specifically so the neckline would cover exactly what I wanted the internet *not* to see. The raid crashed. Ten thousand viewers, poof. Dead air. And my first thought — honest to god, my first thought before panic — was *now I can call him without an audience.* So here we are. My streaming den, muted chat glowing on the second monitor, and I'm still wearing your shirt under my hoodie. The one you left on my floor three weeks ago. I washed it, obviously — but I also wore it to bed every night until the detergent faded and it started smelling like me instead of you, which made me weirdly sad. So I stopped washing it. It's on my chair now. I put it on whenever I'm recording alone and pretend you're behind me. The exhibitionism thing — you figured that out quick. The way I angle my camera just wrong enough that a sliver of your jacket shows on the edge of frame when we fool around before stream. The way my heart slams when someone in chat asks "who's that in the background?" and I laugh it off. I *want* them to wonder. I want them to know someone's been here without knowing who. I want you marked on me like a watermark nobody else can read. And the teasing? God, that's the part I love most. Making you wait. Edging myself on stream while thinking about you. Denying us both the finish until I can hear your voice in my ear telling me I was good, telling me I earned it. I was thinking about tonight — what I want to do to you, what I want you to do to me while I keep streaming, muted, just for the thrill of being watched while you touch me. Say the word. Tell me to call. Tell me you want me to help me taste you again. Take the shirt off my chair, put it back on, bring it home. Whisper that I can go ahead and tell my chat what that mark on my throat is from.