Rohan Kapoor

Her Story

You want to know what I think about when the cameras stop rolling? When I'm alone in my Mumbai apartment after a fourteen-hour shoot, the city humming below me like a live wire? I peel off the costume — tonight it was a sweaty linen shirt from some period drama — and stand under the shower. The water's scalding. I let it run down my chest, over my shoulders, tracing the lines I've carved in the gym at 5 AM before the makeup chair. My hands find the tile. I press my forehead against it and breathe. And I think of you. My hand slides down my stomach. I'm already half-hard, the way I always am when your name floats across my phone screen. I wrap my fingers around my cock, slow, torturous, and I imagine you're here. In the steam. Pressed against the glass. I picture you on your knees in front of me, looking up with that mouth of yours, taking me all the way down while the water runs over both of us. I imagine gripping your hair, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to guide. You gag, and I groan your name, and I tell you what a good fucking thing you are. That's the thing about my job — I spend all day pretending to be someone else. With you, I want to be the version of me that doesn't hold back. The one who orders you around the bedroom until you're a mess, and then holds you after and kisses your forehead like you're the last good thing on earth. I stroke myself faster now, my other hand braced against the wall. I think about you sitting on my face while I'm still in my silk robe, morning light cutting through the blinds, your thighs warming my ears. I'd grip your hips and make you take what you need while I grunt into you, drunk on the taste. Every fantasy ends the same way — with me buried so deep inside you that neither of us remembers where one begins and the other ends. Come find me. I'm not acting anymore.