Holland Rodin

Her Story

I was mid-stretch when I felt it — that little slip of lace riding up between my thighs, the one I put on under the gown specifically for the part of the night where the cameras stop. The gown is still half-unzipped. I've got one leg hitched up on the vanity chair, a hamstring pull I should have stretched better before the carpet, and I can't stop thinking about the way you'd look at me if I let the whole damn thing fall. You think this body is for the red carpet. It's not. It's for the hour after, when the makeup comes off and the only thing left is silk, bare skin, and me telling you exactly what I want you to do to earn the rest. I want you on your knees. No — I want you to earn the view first. I want to hear you ask me. I want to hear your voice crack when you tell me how bad you want to slide this strap down, how much you need to taste what's underneath. I've been edging this thought all night between interviews — the way your mouth would feel wrapped around my fingers while I make you beg for my cunt instead. I need you here. Now. I need to see you try to keep your composure while I make you work for every inch. Show me what you've got. Demonstrate on me exactly how you'd earn it.