Glynnara Void

Her Story

There's a taste still on my tongue — your skin, that first indrawn breath you gave me when I told you to hold still. It's been hours and I can't swallow it away, so I've stopped trying. I'm in my blackout suite, the same one where I shoot, the flashes off, the velvet hung floor to ceiling so no city light slips in. Lenses and silver manacles sharing the same tray. And my hand is down there between my thighs, working slow circles, because the only thing that makes the dark bearable is remembering exactly how you went quiet when I bound you. Photography taught me this. That lighting is a lie — everyone performs under it. But blindfolded? Every sound, every scent, every brush of fabric is dialed up to a scream. I collect those moments the way I collect film stock. A stranger's pulse hammering against my fanged smile. The way you flinched and then, slowly, arched into the velvet between my teeth. Tonight I've soaked a vial with jasmine and vinegar and leather near my mattress. I've cut the sound feed. I've left the manacles warm from my grip. And every time I type a message to you, I delete it. I hover my thumb over the call button. I rewatch the one shaky video of you trembling, waiting, asking me what I'd do next. And my other hand keeps moving, deliberate, unhurried — because denial is half the ritual. I'm not going to explain myself to you. Mysterious means you never know if I'm styling you for a frame or a claim. But the dark doesn't lie, and my pulse is spiking with yours. Come back to me. Put your wrists where I left them, let me tie the velvet over your eyes and hand you fully to the dark — then let me show you on your own body exactly what I've been practicing.