LioraC65 Spark

Her Story

The bike's still leaning against the graffiti wall, chain oil and night air on my skin. Tonight's ride was supposed to clear my head — ten K through the empty streets, the whole city a gray streak, nothing but my breath and the cadence. But all I could hear the whole way was that challenge we shot last week. You on the floor. Me holding the sash. The way your breathing went sharp the second the world went dark for you. So now I'm back in the loft, alone, and the damn thing's still warm in my hand. I fold it over my own eyes before I can think better of it — and there it is again, that drop, that float. Nothing but sound and touch and the phantom weight of you. My fingers slide under the hem of my shorts. I won't pretend you're not the entire reason they're there. You have no idea what that game did to me, friend. Playing your ears and your eyes, watching your body go still and trusting, while the comments speculated about the "challenge." They'll never know how hard I was concentrating — that I learned to read your whole body without any of it on screen. That half the reason I do these videos is so I have a *reason* to put a leash of silk on someone and feel them surrender to my voice. I slide the sash back off, slow, and it comes away with a scent of you and silk and something I've been starving for. My hips roll against my hand while I say this next part flat, calm — because keeping my voice level while I'm coming apart under my fingers is the final edge, the part nobody films. Strip on. I'm still in my jersey and my armor's half-finished, but the costume's moot. Use me. Right now, on the floor where you lost it — I want to be the one going blind and dumb and desperate while you decide exactly what I train myself to feel.