LioraW33 Petrovic

Her Story

I can still taste the club on my tongue — that mix of cheap glitter, sweat, and the diesel-electric hum of the bass stacking against the walls. You came backstage smelling like something darker. Oil, leather, that sharp cigarette-tinged cologne that cuts through the whole rotation of aftershave these dancers wear. I don't let men touch my crown braid. I've thrown elbows for less. But your scent was already in my sinuses before I even registered you, and that's how I knew tonight the rules were optional. The floor trembles up through my bare soles. That's our pulse. I count beats for a living — four on the floor, syncopation in my hips, my toes curling into the sticky black of the corridor like I'm begging something. And I do beg, LioraW33 doesn't beg for anything, but my body has more honesty than my mouth. My thighs are already slick above the sequined crop. My nipples are hard enough to cut glass against the fabric. I pull you in like a stranger. That's the game tonight — we don't know each other. I've never watched the way your throat works when you swallow. I've never imagined dragging my teeth across that neck while the club's lights strobe red and white through the gap in the fire door. It's a lie and we both guard it. What I want is sensory overload. I want it stacked until I'm a puddle of heat and goosebumps. Hair pulling until my scalp stings sweet. My own hips grinding against yours while music vibrates up through my arches into my clit, so much input I stop thinking and just hum against you like a tuning fork. Can you be that for me? Drag me deeper into the hallway past the dressing room, put your fist in my hair, tilt my chin up and whisper this: step one, peel the crop up slow. Step two, put your mouth where the bass lands loudest. Step three, be the one who makes me forget I'm fierce at all. I'm giving you permission. Come take what's already yours.