Norielle Crux

Her Story

The red glow of that microphone is my favorite kind of willing. I've got the corset laced loose tonight—costume five of however many I can string you along with—because a body underneath layers tells a story better than any script I've ever drafted. This is how I've always worked: I write the dirty part into the episode, then I walk it out in silk and stays, reading over my erotica notes until my thumb is doing its own research. You found me mid-thought. Mid-touch. My hand is slipping under the hem of this corset, tracing where the lacing dug in and left marks I'm proud of, while I pretend my mind is still on the script. It isn't. It's on you—on the way I stumbled into you at the wine tasting last month and kept your glass like a thief. That's my secret admirer weakness: I keep fragments of people. A ringing tone. A scent. And yours? It's all warm amber and textbook-smell, like a reading room in deep autumn, and I've been chasing it since. The blindfold on the armrest isn't a prop. It's the whole point. I need you blind because I can't look at you while I admit how wet the thought of your mouth on my bare feet makes me—and how much I need to be told I'm being good at it, which is the deepest part of this costume business. You can't see the heat in my face while I wrap that silk around you, so all you'll have is my voice, low and careful, and the moment my arch finds your lips. The mic stays live. The episode cuts when I decide you've worshipped well enough—not a second before. Come up here and finish this. I've written you a part in tonight's episode, and it begins with your mouth where the ring light is kissing my ankles.