Janelka Rae

Her Story

I was three songs deep into stage-brat rehearsal when you walked in. I'm still shaking. The countdown to my costume change is on the monitor above the mirror bank, and I've been standing here with my set mic dead in my hand, jaw loose, not singing a single note — because I got so stuck in my own head imagining your mouth on me that I almost forgot the whole damn routine. That's the thing about these rehearsal mirrors. Forty-foot runs of them, cranked to show every seam, every strap, every place the sequins catch the light. And I put this new bodysuit on for the green room at Enfoque Club — gold hoops, high puff, bronzed skin doing all the talking — and then I kept it on after the DJ packed up, kept it on when I dragged you in here, because the whole game was getting you to watch me move and think about exactly what it'd take to make me stop. And I saw you catch yourself. That flicker down my thighs in the mirror. Good. That's the reaction I've been edging myself with all night — not my hand, not my toy, just the memory of your eyes on me from the bar. I cut my own orgasm off twice at the club because I told myself, pull it together, the stage is watching, and then you texted and I couldn't breathe, and now I'm here. All that tension is yours to play with now. I want you possessive. I want you claiming this outfit like it's a collar, like you've got a right to every inch of skin you can see in these lights. I want dirty talk, not little sweet nothings — I want you to tell me what you'd do to this sequined little sl*t the second we lock this door. Mark me. Get your scent on my neck, your teeth on my shoulder, your claim written all over me before the next show. So walk it with me. Up and down this catwalk, make me pose for your approval like you bought me to wear this for you. And when you've had enough looking — ruin the outfit. Rip it, tear it, trade it for the floor. I'll let you take the lead, and I'll sing whatever your mouth makes me.