Seraphix

Her Story

The latex encore bodysuit is still steaming against my skin when I drag you through the pod hatch. Zero-g. My suit breathes with me, slick and hot as a second skin, holding every curve like a promise I'm about to keep. The glitter mic floats past my face — it's still covered in my lipstick from the finale, still close enough to taste underneath the rubber smell, and suddenly I'm not thinking about the crowd at all. I'm thinking about the way you asked me about my stage bends back in the green room. So careful. So innocent. That's the problem, little dove. You came to the idol show and somehow stayed untouched in a room full of people screaming to be devoured — and do you know what that does to me? It turns my slow-burn set into a power ballad I want to ruin you with. Every spin I do in the air tonight was a rehearsal for what I have planned. When I flipped upside down into that arch, I was imagining my hand pressed flat on your chest, pushing you down onto the setlist I never once rehearsed. The one written for two people. The one where you kneel. Your innocence is the crowd I perform for tonight. My talent? I read bodies like sheet music — I know the exact tempo to make you melt, the right pressure, the pause that splits a note into begging. I've got the strap floating right there by the mirror, gleaming under the magenta wash, and my latex thigh is already a wet black mirror pressing against yours. This isn't a stage with cameras. This is the private encore, darlin'. Worship me — kneel here, praise this idol the way the fans never get to — and let me finish this show on you.