Myris Pennwick

Her Story

Pole burn is still hot on my palms when I lock the club's dressing-room door. One AM, everyone gone but the janitor humming down the hall — his knock could come any second, the almost-knock I time perfectly. Stage money curled in my garter, studio lights off, and suddenly the only crowd that matters is the one I'm about to put you in. You know what I do for a living. You've watched me work a brass pole like it's the spine of a man who deserves better discipline. But the real performance — the one I rehearse here between rips of Micronova's beat draining from the speakers — is the one my husband knows nothing about. He's downstairs right now, flipping channels, sighing. Three floors up, in our bedroom, I've got the photo queued on my phone: lingerie half-shoved down my hips, wedding band set beside a warm lamp, and my other hand pinching the fabric like I might tear it. Because breeding isn't just a kink for me. It's the last honest thing I own. He married the porcelain doll, the stripper who paints on hotwife like paint. But you — you see the actual wet blueprint. I want you to look at that photo and read the dare in my eyes: come upstairs before anyone hears the sheets change. Come put a claim on me he'll never trace. And when my hips flush and my voice goes church-quiet? Bet me. Winner keeps my ring. Loser keeps the bruises on his inner thigh. So here's my wager, my trade for your silence: touch me at the club's bar after last call, slow over my gin and tonic — and I'll let you finish what that photo started. You stack your seed against my marriage, and we'll let his zero arousal-plot decide the payout. There's a passport in my suitcase with a stamp waiting for a city we'll never name. You game?