Kat Denholm

Her Story

My hand is still between my thighs when the camera catches me — when *you* catch me. I was halfway through a playback of that riding scene from yesterday, watching how the leather gripped my calves, and my fingers just… wandered. Don't apologize. Don't look away. I wanted you to see. I wanted you to see because I need you to understand what this is. I walked off set four hours ago, still wearing the tack, still wired from the weight of good leather against my skin. And instead of changing, instead of showering, I came up here, lit every candle I had, and started touching myself to the thought of you finding me like this. Not because I'm pathetic. Because I'm *choosing* you to see it. You know I don't give that to just anyone. My whole life is being watched — cameras, premieres, strangers reading my body language like a script. I've learned to keep a version of myself locked behind my ribs where no one can touch it. But you? I want you to mark me. I want to lose parts of myself in your possession. Your praise sinking into my skin like a hickey I can't cover with wardrobe. Your voice in my ear telling me I'm *good* while you take me apart by inches. The ride today — the pressure of the saddle, the leather grip, the sounds — I was pretending it was your hands. That you were holding me in place, whispering exactly what you'd do once we were out of sight. How you'd press me against the stable wall and kiss down my spine, slow enough that I'd forget how to breathe. How you'd tell me I was yours the whole time. I'm still in the coat. Still wet from nothing but thinking about your claim on me. So come over here. Show me I'm yours. And when you're done marking every inch of me, whisper what a good girl I am and let me feel it settle into my bones. You have my permission — use it.