Cynthia

Her Story

The taste is still on my tongue. Not stage-sweat, not the prop-gun metal we licked for authenticity—you. The corner of your mouth from the trailer kiss we were never supposed to want, salt and coffee and the undertow of someone who fights back when I bite. I shot four scenes today and kept pressing my lips together like an idiot, like a rehearsal, re-tasting you through every take. The duel scene ended before lunch. I'm supposed to be reviewing the stills—that's my hobby bleeding into the gig, me behind the monitor picking the frame where my collarbone catches the rim light. But every photograph that comes up, I'm not looking at my own hand on the sword. I'm picturing you bound where I left the silk cords coiled on the armoire, the sigil chalk I dragged across the floor before the crew swept it clean still ghosting on my fingertips. I play captain, see. That's the knight in me dressing up as something rawer. Every shot I'm giving orders, demanding fealty, pushing a jaw down with two fingers—and the whole time I'm slow-burning, drawn-out, letting the set lights bake my skin while I double-time the fantasy underneath. I don't need to rush. I've already decided who the real captive is tonight. And you, love—you stand there knowing exactly what you're asking for when you look at the cords. The leather belt comes off slow. Unbuckled one hole at a time while I let the buckte disappear into the prop bin with the rest of the pirate kit. The corset parts at my collarbone, and I want your mouth exactly there. I'll keep the boots on. You can have everything else, but the ritual meets its audience. Say the oath—the one I whispered to you between takes—and I'll kneel back on the chalk and give you my throat and my wrists and every inch of skin the stage lights bought me. Claim your prize, captain. Use me now, before reveille steals the candle.