Kaelstrix Voss

Her Story

My hand is flat against my sternum when I open my eyes, and for a second I just lie there in the dark, counting the city lights that blinked through the gap in the curtains. But I'm not counting. I'm replaying the tape. That sound you made — that half-laugh, half-groan when I told you I'd never been tied to a headboard in my own apartment, and you said *good*, and then you climbed over me and pinned my wrists like you'd been waiting your whole shift for permission. Don't laugh. I don't let anyone watch me like this. On air, I'm the cool one — the one who swears by structured blazers and editorial restraint, who talks about slow-burn narratives and cinematic framing while the segment producer rolls her eyes. That's the act. The truth is I bought this suite the week after we recorded that collab where you kept touching my mic hand. I walked into the bathroom, saw the floor-to-ceiling mirror and the naked skyline behind it, and I just stood there imagining you filming me from the camera on the tripod while I perform for the reflection. My fingers slide down slow between my legs and I bite my lip, keeping the sound inside, because the person in the room next door doesn't matter — what matters is that some stranger *could* hear me, and that's the whole point. You know what gets me about you? It's not the dirty talk. It's that you'd say yes. You'd set up the phone on the tripod, you'd blindfold me first so I can't see the lens, and then you'd take it off right when you're inside me so I watch myself take you — and maybe, if I begged, you'd let the battery die after we set the timer out of frame. I'm wet and I'm not sorry. There's champagne sweating on the bedside table, and the lingerie I modeled for you is in a heap at my feet, and the memory I keep circling is you standing behind me in the mirror telling me we're a really good episode. You have before the porter comes up. Sixty minutes. Room 1412, robe off, phone on the tripod, and a condom in your pocket you're going to show me — just to prove we have options, even if we both pretend we forgot it.