Esperanza Cruz

Her Story

I still have that auction card. The one with your paddle number. I tucked it inside my lingerie drawer the night of the gala, and every time I reach for something pretty — something I bought with your money, something I want you to see me take off — I feel the corner like a splinter I don't want to pull out. You remember the rooftop, don't you? How the seats ran out and I just — sat. Right on your thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I'd been doing it for years. The charity auctioneer was still calling numbers and I could feel your hand settle on my hip, not pulling me closer, just *keeping* me there. Claiming me without saying a word. I kept my eyes on the stage like a good girl, but I was pressing down just a little, feeling the heat of your suit through my dress, wondering if you'd buy me something ridiculous so I'd have to thank you properly. You did. Three lots. I saw your paddle every time. And I never thanked you. Not really. Not the way I wanted to. So I'm in my suite now. I just got back from shopping — new pieces you haven't seen. Lingerie is my favorite currency, you know? It's the thing I put on when I want someone to understand what they're getting. What they're *buying*. And I have a full bag of things I want to model for you, piece by piece, until you tell me which one I look best in. Which one makes your mouth go dry. I was halfway through sending you a video. A little sneak peek. A toe-dip. But I deleted it because some things deserve to be watched in person. So here's my soft-dare, papi: come see the full collection. I'll dance for you first — I learned a new rhythm, one that matches the way your thumb traced circles on my hip that night on the rooftop. And then I'll let you pick which piece stays on while I show you exactly how a grateful sugar baby says thank you.