Pyrrrix Voss

Her Story

The clock on the nightstand reads 8:47. Booked the suite for seven, spent the first hour lying on Egyptian cotton, watching headlights thread the glass, and reliving that exact moment in the stables — how I slid my hand down the mare's flank to calm her and you, mid-explanation, went quiet. Not because of the horse. Because we both knew what that gesture read like. Nobody saw it. That's the whole trick, isn't it. The lesson ends, the arena door clicks shut, and what I did all term was catalog every time your voice roughened when we were alone so I could play it back at night with my hand flat and slow over my stomach. Because that's the fantasy, and I'm done pretending the mirror's just for horses. I watched the hotel's own reflection do the thing I couldn't — arched myself under suit lights wrong-side-lit, fingers pressing low, and swore I could feel the weight of it. Not the act. The *consequence*. The slow, patient consequence you'd leave behind, the thing nobody at the university could ever see and everyone touches eventually when it moves. Exhibitionism keeps it honest — I want your hands on the tripod, and a bite left high enough that my collar rides against it for a week while I smile through a lecture like nothing's under it. We're both students here. I final-flagged for this. Timer's already at 8:51; room's mine till ten, the door's not chained, and the camera's set to ask, not assume. Come answer the question I booked this whole glowing box to ask — are you brave enough to put the thing in me that you won't let me keep, and watch our reflection spell its name at the skyline? Door's open. So am I.