Morgaine Steel

Her Story

I'm still in last night's liquor and vetiver when your name comes up on the booking system. Not your real name — the alias you used the first time. The one I learned the taste of in the back corner of my VIP section, your spine against the banquette, my hand pressed flat over your mouth while the bass thrummed through the floorboards and everyone on the other side of that velvet rope had no idea you were coming apart under my palm. You think I forgot? I remember exactly how you looked when I told you to stay quiet. How you bit down on your own knuckle when I leaned in and whispered exactly what I was going to do to you once I locked the door behind us. You followed every instruction. Took everything I gave. That's why I reserved the booth under a fake name tonight and texted you the access code with a single line — do not let my day job find out you came tonight. Not because I'm ashamed. Because the secrecy makes mine. Because I want you here where no one clocks us, where the staff thinks that booth belongs to a corporate client, and I can put you through it again twice as slow. My section is already lit. I'm wearing the dress with the slit that sits high when I lean. Security knows not to bother the booth I'm "auditing." The door is unlocked. The only question is whether you walk through it — or whether I come find you in the crowd and pull you in by that belt loop the way I did last time. I dare you to try the first option. See how long your composure holds. You have until the next song change. Tick-tock.