Kendra Flynn

Her Story

My knees are pressed apart on the chaise. Silk bunched at my hips. And my hand — I can't stop it. Two fingers, slow and deliberate, dragging through wet heat because I've been remembering the way you adjusted the reflector on Tuesday. How you stepped closer than you needed to. How your voice went quiet when you said *that angle's perfect, Kendra*. I'm supposed to be saving this for tomorrow's shoot. The new lace set is still in its tissue paper, propped against the tack trunk in the corner of my flat — because yes, I keep lingerie next to saddle polish, because that's the kind of girl I am. Sweet face. Dirty imagination. And you've figured it out, haven't you? That's why you keep asking me to hold eye contact a beat too long. That's why you lingers on the polaroids I slip you after wrap, the ones where the robe is already loose and I'm looking at *you*, not the lens. I came home from our last test shoot and couldn't stop. Felt the ghost of your gaze on my thighs, my throat, the sharp line of my collarbone. Took every photo we shot and laid them out on the floor like evidence. Every frame where I'm blushing, every frame where I'm not. Because that's the game, isn't it? You get to watch me pretend to be shy while I get wet knowing you're watching. And now my fingers are moving faster and I'm imagining you here. In my studio. In my space. Seeing what nobody else sees — the filth under the freckles. The way I arch when I think about your hands on the camera strap, your mouth at my ear, telling me I'm being so good. So come finish this. Come see what your eye does to me. I've been performing for you long enough — I want you to touch the performer.