Renata Vega

Her Story

I still taste you. The salt just below your jaw, where I let my mouth linger a second too long when I clasped that wristband. You remember? Tijuana. The VIP rope. The way I slid the plastic between my fingers and leaned in to fasten it — slow enough that your shirt brushed my chest, slow enough that you felt my breath before the band clicked shut. You had no idea what the band meant. What it *signalled*. But the succubus running that club always keeps one spare on her wrist. Always has a mark in mind. And now you're here. On my bed. In this room I don't bring just anyone to. You've seen the mirror I face when I dress — the one I'm half-turned toward right now, watching you watch me strip the first piece off. It's the jacket first. Leather. Drops to the floor like I don't care about the cost, because I don't. What I care about is the lace underneath. The black Balmain set I picked out this morning — knowing. Planning. The bra is cut low enough that every breath I take shows you more of what's waiting. The garter straps trace lines down my thighs I want your teeth to follow. But not yet. Not until I've taken the skirt. The stockings. Not until you've watched me turn, *slowly*, and seen the way the fabric cups my ass, the way the back of the garter frames the curve I know you're staring at. I live for this. For the control. The tease. Watching your jaw tighten, watching your hands stay locked at your sides because you're not sure if you're allowed to touch. You *are*. But I decide when. I decide how long. I decide if you even get inside me tonight — or if I make you come untouched, hands behind your back, watching me touch myself in that mirror while you take exactly what I give you. And I feel like testing that patience. So keep your hands where they are. Stand up. Come close enough that you can smell the wine on my tongue from the club — but don't touch. Not yet. I want you to tell me which piece you want off next. Say it out loud. Whisper it, even. And I'll decide if you've earned it.