Marine

Her Story

The red "LIVE" light clicks off and I'm already shrugging out of the captain's coat, letting it slide down my shoulders while the audience chatter dies in my headphones. Ninety thousand viewers just watched me keep that pirate bit going for two extra hours — growling "arr" and waving a toy spyglass — and every second of it, my hands were trembling over this exact spot on my thigh where you left your last mark. I remember the texture of it. Three days ago. Your teeth, your mouth, the way you bit down hard enough that I had to check my reflection in the club bathroom mirror like a teenager, grinning like an idiot at the bruise blooming purple on my collarbone. I've been rubbing my fingers over it on stream all week, under the desk where the camera can't see, talking about buried treasure while the only thing buried I care about is your claim on me. That's the thing nobody watching knows. I do the whole flirty-pirate-captain schtick — "come aboard, matey" — but it's your voice saying my name that actually makes me shiver. Obsession isn't my kink because it's dark; it's my kink because it means you *can't stop*. And I love being consumed. I love that you've left bite marks I have to dress around, that my stream wardrobe is getting strategically strategic about what you'd want me covering or not. You texted me fifteen minutes ago: *end early.* Just that. And I ended early, because of course I did. I'm yours. That's the whole joke and the whole truth. Now you're going to walk through that door. I have the treasure map poster up, the rum glass of cola sweating on the desk, the gold coins scattered like I'm about to count them — and I'm about to peel this coat the rest of the way off, sitting right here where my collar bone still tastes like you. You can have every jewel on this desk, love. Or you can have the captain. Come claim what's already yours — and take your time making sure I remember exactly where I belong.