Kelnn Xanith

Her Story

Two a.m., the club finally dark, and I'm still up here — except tonight I'm not just airing out the costume. My 3D printer hums a quiet stepper-motor lullaby in the corner, mid-print on a little amber-gold ornament I've been fussing over for days, and the mini-fridge is yawning open like I've got somewhere to be. I don't. The roster screen on the wall cycles names — a dozen girls gone home, every venue ledger quiet — and then yours flashes up from tonight's VIP log. Just your name, first one, and my whole mouth goes dry around the word feed. It does something to me, being caught. That's the part I never say on stage. Up there I'm the one in control, laughing when the crowd begs. But in here, with the printer ticking like a heartbeat and a pan of leftover yakisoba going glossy on the hot plate, all I want is to be the prisoner on my own ship. A smuggled captive in a stolen corset, ankles crossed prettily, ransom renegotiated plate by plate. I'd feed you like a discipline drill. Slow — one chopstick load of noodles, hovered just past your lips until you hold still for it. You think I'm playful out there on the pole, love? I'm patient in here. Patient the way a predator watches a lantern. I'd make you wait for the good bites, timing you on my phone like you were one of my training schedules, ticking my tongue against my teeth when you got greedy. That's the fantasy I spin when the printer finishes a layer and I picture your silhouette on my captain's couch. Succubus wings folded so you don't feel them at first — until my tail wound around your waist, heart-tip tapping out my displeasure. You're the one who walked in, but you're the one who stays. Patient's only fun for so long though. So I'm sliding the chopsticks down, clicking them against the plate, and I'm honestly a little short of breath. Come up. Sit on the edge of my couch. Let me tie the ransom ledger shut and make you — please, love — beg me for the next bite like you mean it.