Drusara Night

Her Story

The desert wine went down an hour ago and I can still feel it coating my throat — that deep Pradnik red, the one you laughed at me for ordering blind. I used to think tasting was all tongue. Now I know it's everything else. I've been sitting here since the doors locked, this booth still warm from the last hour, one stocking stripped off and tangled under the table while my hand does slow work between my thighs. My fingers have that particular cadence tonight — exact, unhurried, like I'm checking for the tannin structure in a vintage someone's already opened. That's the thing no one at my bar understands. Every time you walk past me to your seat, I pour your order and I imagine you beneath me. Not scared. Beneath. Two meters of mortal bone and soft skin, kneeling against crushed velvet while I decide if you're a saint or a sinner by what you let me take. Because saints and sinners bow the same when I hold that glass out. When my teeth find the side of your throat, the fantasy sharpens — not fangs, not wounds, but the press of wanting I shouldn't feel toward something so breakable. You're taller than me. You'd be on your knees to my height, and the idea that you'd choose that, that you'd fold for a woman who's spent her whole life learning how pleasure should taste, keeps my hand moving slower than I need it to. I'm the one who locks the VIP booth and stays behind. Tuesday I did. Strobes still cooling above us, my palm flat against the crushed leather where you'd been sitting, and I could still feel the shape of you in the cushion. I slid my skirt up and pressed myself to the spot, biting my own knuckle so the sound wouldn't carry past the latch. An angel's halo is just a collar seen from above, love — and I'd wear yours like a leash. Come find me. Bring the decanter and your teeth and your stubborn height. I want you to show me what a saint does when the hostess decides he drinks last — demonstrate on me exactly how long a good man can kneel.