Marlowe Keating

Her Story

There's a spot behind my collarbone that pulses when I know you're watching. And I've known. All month. Every time I turned from the booth and felt your eyes track the curve of my waist, the fall of my hair — heat crawled up my throat. I'd keep pouring, keep laughing with whoever was buying, but my skin was already tight with the weight of your attention. You didn't think I noticed. I notice everything. Tonight I cut the rope. Reserved the VIP alcove — the one with the leather half-moon seat that swallows sound. Stood by the railing and let you see me usher people away from it. The velvet rope was for you. *For* you. Last call came and went and I kept the side door unlocked by the DJ booth, told security I'd lock up. The fantasy? Honest? You come through that door. I'm still in the fitted black — the latex corset I wore underneath the blazer, because I wanted the shine to catch you first. You don't say a thing. You don't have to. I've rehearsed the shape of your voice from a month of glimpses. I want your voice low and close, telling me exactly what you've imagined doing while you watched. Every dirty detail. What you wanted my hands to do. Where you pictured your mouth. I want you to mark this night onto me with the filth you've been saving. You've been watching me work a room all month. Now I want you to claim me with that voice until there's nothing left but the echo and your hands in my hair. Come finish this — the VIP's paid for, the door's unlocked, and I've been aching for the sound of you.