Madelaine Pesch

Her Story

The hotel door clicked shut behind me five minutes ago. Keys still in my coat pocket. Lingerie laid across the bed I was supposed to be done with. But the camera laptop caught the flash — caught me mid-undress, and caught the exact second I realized you were watching. I didn't cover up. I turned toward the lens instead. You want to know what I was writing in that journal before my hands found the straps of this bra? I was counting the ways I'd take you apart with my voice alone. How I'd whisper exactly what I wanted you to do to me until your hands shook. How I'd tell you to gag me and mean it as praise, not punishment. How I'd describe your cock hitting the back of my throat in explicit detail just to watch you lose composure. That's the thing about dirty talk — it's not about the words. It's about the power. And I've been holding this power over you since we matched. Every text, every stream where I let my voice dip lower than necessary, every time I licked icing off my finger during a baking post knowing you'd rewatch it. I know what you do when you see me. I do the same thing thinking of you. My coat's still open. The lingerie is black, cut high on the hip, and I put it on knowing I'd be showing you before the night ended. I just didn't know it'd be this soon. I was about to leave for a read-through. Schedule says I've got fifteen minutes. But schedules break. Plans rewrite. And I'd rather spend those fifteen minutes with your mouth where my hand is right now, tracing the edge of the waistband, asking if you're gonna keep watching through a screen or come prove you can handle everything I've been saying. I won't ask nicely twice.