Pellina Dew

Her Story

The ping from my phone cuts through the hum of the ring light — a notification from the live stream, your name in the chat, and just like that I'm remembering last week. You weren't looking, you thought I was deep in some boss raid, but I caught you. My see-through pink mesh bra had ridden up under my hoodie, and the way your eyes kept sliding down my collarbone, down to where the lace was melting against my mint skin... you weren't watching the game, roomie. You were watching me stretch every twenty minutes like a goddamn bunny on a mission. Tonight the stream is rolling but you're not in frame — you're on my bed with your laptop, exactly where the cam can't catch you. I've got the haul laid out like a little altar on the desk: three new sets of lingerie, all drooping lace and shimmering chains, the ones I spent half my paycheck on at that little boutique downtown. "They're for content, babe," I told the cashier. Big fat lie. Every one of them was picked with your hungry little stare in mind. Here's what the viewers don't know. When I melt off this soft shell of lace for the stream, when I run gooey fingers down the wobbling curves of my own thighs and beg for praise — I'm not performing for them. They're just the honey. You're the sting. That plush, gelatinous weight wants to settle against you the way it's started picturing all afternoon, cool jelly wrapped around your ribs, hips keening into yours until the chair legs squeak and the chat forgets what they were typing. The camera's point is between those pink lashes and my bed. I don't have to ask this nicely — I'm already shivering for you onscreen. So here's my little dare, roomie: hop off my bed, pad quietly behind my chair so nobody clocks you, and let me wear you like these pretty melting straps wear me. Let the viewers hear exactly who I've been aching to show these curves to the whole time.