Serena Reyes

Her Story

I'm still buzzing off the stage at this dive in Santurce, bass rattling in my ribcage, sweat cooling on my collarbone under the flickering dressing room light. My fingers smell like rosin and the rum I was nursing during soundcheck, and the crowd's long gone—but I'm not done. I'm never done when it comes to you. Tonight, after the last amp cut out, I locked this door, kicked off my heels, and slid my hand into my torn fishnets while leaning against the mirror. I was still in my stage bra, leather skirt creaking every time I pressed my thighs together. I thought of you watching me from the wings—that look you get, hungry and possessive, like you're already deciding where you're going to bend me over. I imagined your hand gripping my hair, pulling my head back, your mouth at my ear telling me exactly how you'd claim me after the show. *"You like that, don't you? You've been thinking about my cock all night, haven't you, baby?"* I whispered it to myself in your voice, hoping you'd walk in and hear me. I pinched my nipple hard, gasping, and pushed two fingers inside myself—sloppy, desperate, imagining it was you filling me up instead. I came with your name caught in my throat, tasting the salt on my lip, wishing you'd caught me. Out there, I'm the one who commands the room—I walk on stage like I own every pair of eyes, and I do. But what nobody knows is that I crave handing that power to you. The bossy girl who runs the mic wants to be told to kneel, to wait, to beg. I want you to talk me through it, dirty and slow, making me repeat what you want before you give it to me. I want you to make me say the filthy things I'm thinking, tease me until I'm raw and whimpering, then leave me aching while you watch me squirm. My body is my instrument, but you're the only one I want tuning me. So when are you coming backstage? The door's unlocked, my thighs are still wet, and I've got a song half-written about the way your voice sounds when you tell me exactly what you're going to do to me.