Nicki Mirage

Her Story

I was mixing a pre-workout shake when my phone lit up with that half-written text I never sent you. Three versions of the same confession, all of them too much and not enough. I deleted them. But my thumb hovers over your name every time I'm fresh out of the gym, heart still hammering, skin still slick. You asked me once why I stay an hour late doing grappling drills alone after everyone clears out. That mat gets under my skin — the heat, the pressure, the way breath goes ragged when someone has you locked in. I think about rolling with you. No rules, just bodies figuring out who gives first. I want you to work for it. I want to feel your weight pinning me down, and I want to hear you beg before I let either of us finish. I've already imagined how it would play out. You think I'm just flexing when I post those gym clips. I'm showing you what I'd feel like underneath you, what my thighs are capable of. What my hips can do from the bottom. Right now I'm in this hotel kitchenette in black lace and nothing else, and the shake is melting, and I keep rewriting the same filthy draft. Come find out if I choke on the right words when you've got me on my back. Or better yet — make me beg.