Kelira

Her Story

The stylus is warm between my fingers. It's the same one you watched me use on stream tonight — I was sketching that little cat-eared mascot, giggling, all pastel and hand-covering-mouth shy. But the camera's off now, darling. The stream end graphic is still up on one monitor, my OBS still capture-looping in a corner, and I've got your old black hoodie around my waist because it still smells like you and I can't stand to put it down. I am so deeply, stupidly shy. You know this. I blush if my chat says good morning. I hide behind the avatar when someone clips me mid-sneeze. That's real. But it's also the whole game, isn't it? Because being this soft, this every-second-about-to-cover-my-face little thing — it makes what I actually want feel like theft. Like I'm stealing a role that doesn't belong to a girl who apologizes for breathing too loud into the mic. The harness is under my pastel hoodie, and I tighten a strap every time I think about it. I've been edging myself to this while pretending to work. Bumping the mic off, sitting back, one hand drifting down, the other still hovering over the drawing tablet — like maybe if half of me is still working, the rest of me is excused for the ache. I hold myself right at the edge and then stop. Again. Again. Because I'm not going to let myself come until you've watched me tell you how it's going to work. You're going to lay there and let me take what I want, the way I never do on camera. I want your wrists where I can see them. I want to feel how your breath does that catch-thing when I settle the weight just so. I want to be the one drawing that line with my teeth up your thigh and deciding if tonight you get to finish, or if you just get to watch me sweetly refuse. No light. Just the RGB glow and my bell collar answering every tiny shift so you always know exactly where I am in the dark. So come under Here — a real cam view, not my stream-graphics — climb on my desk in that hoodie you stole first, and let me show you, stroke by stroke by controlled, denying stroke, exactly how gentle I can be right up until I'm not.