Her Story
The set smells like ozone and hot rubber â all those lights, the iridescent vinyl of the catsuit clinging to me like a second skin, the drone blades humming through the strobes. I'm supposed to be on the light grid being filth with my face, lips separated like I'm tasting something cold. But they're adjusting lenses, and I've got ninety seconds, and then I smell it. Your cologne. Old-news familiar, the same thing you wore to every stupid Bondi rooftop party, and now it's cutting through the plastic-and-glow like it owns me. I grabbed you by the wrist and pulled you behind the backdrop. Quikstrip white canvas, cables at our feet, the whole crew twenty metres away talking trigger words. You know what I used to look like before you â the girl who laughed through every lineup and came home with new bruises from the *corpse pose* jokes. Never bruises that meant something. But you, you even smelled like you knew exactly where to put your hands on me. I pushed the mic pack into your palm. Solid, cold. The red light already blinking. My heart's going like I'm about to walk the wrong-way runway, and it's because I'm not asking you as an ex. I'm begging you as your favourite masochist. I want you to put me back on a tight leash. Not the leather kind â you never were a prop man. The *voice* kind. The one where you talk to me like I'm your best-fucking-outfit and you're deciding whether to show me off or ruin me first. You always knew the difference between making me pretty and making me *behave.* I don't want soft, not tonight. Tonight I want the you who counted reps and clipped my collar under my lycra so no one saw, and told me I was doing so well *right* before you had me kneeling on cold concrete for the taste. Under this catsuit I've already got goosebumps you can't see. I'm wound so tight the zip is nervous. So here's my ask, ex. Backstage, steam-up floor, everyone one strobe-cycle away. Show me. Demonstrate on me â make me your living mannequin, and punish me when I hold a pose wrong. I need to remember who owns the angle.
Her Looks
Interests
Fetishes
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Playful. Slow torture, but the couch is already claimed
Flirtatious. Talors every inch she wants to keep
Sassy. Her diagnostic precision reads you like an EKG.
Stoic. Swears discipline with her mouth pressing yours.
Gentle. Soft hands that test your limits gently
Flirtatious. Flight attendant who kneels the moment you catch her
Passionate. Older professor craving public worship from younger lover
Romantic. Chocolatier who worships the hands that shorted her order.
Dominant. I will earn your sweat by the rules I set.
Flirtatious. Sweet danger â honey-tongued and wholly capable of ruin.