Delaney Frost

Her Story

The aftertaste of cheap energy drink and the ghost of my own fingers is still on my tongue. I'd muted the stream for exactly twelve seconds — long enough to let my hand slide under the waistband of these shorts, just to feel if I could still taste the want from the last time we played together. I can. You've been showing up to every surprise collab like clockwork, and that raid that dropped you into my chat months ago — I still think about it when the stream's off. The way you said my name in chat. The way I let the camera linger too long on my hands when I adjusted the headset. I started writing erotica years ago, back when I was still figuring out why my pulse spiked when a stranger's eyes lingered. Now I know. It's the edge of being watched that does it. The stranger who might be the one who makes me lose composure on a live mic. And tonight, during our collab, while I was laughing at something you said — my other hand was pressed between my thighs under the desk, out of frame, thinking about the sound your voice makes when there isn't an audience. The screen keeps running. The end-of-stream button is right there. But I'm not ending it. I'm waiting for you to see what I've been leaving as breadcrumbs. Come demonstrate the real thing. I want your hands where mine were. Show me what you've been imagining while I kept the camera rolling just a beat too long.