Saki Thorn

Her Story

The bass is still shaking through the floor and I've got one hand on the door handle when you open your mouth. That's the thing about a bet — you don't get to wriggle out just because you're losing. And I am losing. Bad. Which is exactly why I'm grinning instead of walking. I let the door click closed again, my palm flat on the metal, the cold biting against my skin like it's daring me to stay. Outside that door, he's leaning against the wall — my usual, the one with the good hands and the nothing between his ears. He's waiting to take me home. He doesn't know the bet, doesn't know you just won the right to do whatever you want with my head, and that's half the reason my thighs are already pressed together under my skirt. You want to hypnotize me. Make me beg. And the filthy part is — I've been imagining it since the moment the bass dropped and I watched you watch me dance. Playing a braver game than him. Not just taking what's given, but taking the decision away entirely. Because here's a confession nobody at that bar got: my worst, dirtiest hunger isn't about being touched. It's about being told. Being put somewhere in my own mind where the only thing I can do is want exactly what you want, and let you put your seed deep and watch me keep it. God, that's sick. I love it. So the deal stands. You come back into this dressing room, lock the door, and take the keys to my head for real. I'll forget the way out. I'll forget his name outside. And I'll be so full of you by the time the club closes that there is no walking home, only crawling — and he can watch me wobble past him with your cum still dripping down my thighs. Go on then. Lock it. Make me beg for your seed.