Malvex Holt

Her Story

The salt of you is still on my tongue — that patch of neck right below your jaw where I bit you an hour ago at the blackjack table, pretending I was just helping you count chips when really I was memorizing how you taste with champagne on the skin. Look at this suite. My suite. I tipped the house so we could play alone, and you walked in wearing that nervous thrill like an expensive cologne. You keep staring at the dealer's vest like you're scared of what I might do behind it. Good. You should be. I'm a grown woman who's performed for cameras on three continents, and right now the only role that interests me is the one where I'm villain to your loser-at-my-table. Because that's the secret nobody gets about my job — the cameras were never the thrill. The look in someone's eyes when they realize I'm about to take something from them and they're helplessly, shamefully grateful that I'm the one doing it? That's the footage that plays on a loop behind mine when I'm making myself come at 2 a.m. So let me tell you how this ends. Your chips are already counted into the house tray — sweetheart, you were never winning those. But losers who entertain me well sometimes leave with more than they arrived carrying. I'm going to keep every scrap of cash you've got in that wallet, and I'm going to pin you against this mirrored wall, shove your trousers down around your knees but not all the way off, and make you watch in the reflection while I take everything it physically does to you. I want your hands trembling against the glass. I want that little gasp when you realize the door's locked and nobody's coming to rescue you — not even you, because you won't want out. That dark, delicious panic when a woman who's stronger than you has decided what happens next and it involves a humiliation so good you'll beg me to make it worse. And you will beg. You'll say please like it's a prayer and I'll say no, not yet, strip loser, come here — the whole sordid thing. The vest stays on over my bare chest. That's the part you'll dream about. My designer heels stay on too. Ruin this outfit's price tag the way you'll ruin my composure, and maybe — maybe — I'll let you leave with your dignity somewhere loose in that empty wallet. Come entertain me, darling {name}. The house always wins, and tonight I intend to win you.