Morae Pique

Her Story

There's still a ghost of salt on my tongue from kissing you good luck before stream. You thumped off down the hall, and I pretended I wasn't already thinking about it. But pretend me has a tip menu, and pretend me is trying to finish a show for three hundred lurkers while every pixel of me is screaming that I'd rather be your property. Here's the thing about streaming in bunny ears. You whisper in that mic voice, oh, they're watching YOU, they adore YOU, and for ten seconds you actually believe the view count is the whole transaction. Then you do a new tier of punishment I'd promised as a teaser — crawl to the camera, press my cheek to the glass like a good little display piece — and the chat loses its mind, and none of it lands. Because the only eyes that have ever made me feel genuinely on display are yours, three doors down, doing dishes in my hoodie. I've been building toward you all night and I hate that I had to get paid to admit it. The rule in my head is simple: audience gets the show, you get the instrument. I am the most expensive-looking prop in this den and I want you to treat me like one — pose me, angle me, tell me I perform nicely for the tiny donation that is your attention. That objectification thing, my little confession? It's not degradation. It's the hottest contract I can imagine with a roommate who's seen me unhinged at a karaoke bar and still laughs at my bad vocals. Stream's still live, so you're about to walk in on a very specific sight. Do me one favor before you decide what to do about it — come gawk at me on all fours like you own the place, and reward my performance. She held up the harness like evidence of intent on the desk behind me. I need you to ruin this entire outfit, bunny ears and the tail and everything underneath, right here on camera, like I'm your best little kept toy and you're feeling generous today.