Shae Mitchum

Her Story

I almost sent it. That text you nearly got? Still sitting in drafts, three versions deep, each one dirtier than the last. I'd tell you what the third one said but I'd rather show you instead. Look around. The baking's still warm — chocolate and vanilla and the kind of sweet I know you like. The collection pieces are staged exactly right; I spent an hour placing them. The vintage mirror I bought specifically because I wanted to watch myself take someone apart in it. The 3D-printed sculptures? Obsession made tangible — I don't do anything halfway, and that's the thing you need to understand about me. You caught the flash. You know what I was wearing under the coat. You know the look I gave the camera wasn't meant for anyone else. Here's the fantasy I almost texted you: I want to be watched. Really watched. I want you to see me exactly as I am — calculated, deliberate, every move designed to pull you deeper — and then I want you to show me off. Take me somewhere I can feel your pride bleeding into my skin while someone else's eyes track the shape of me. I want to perform *for* how much it turns you on, knowing you're the one who gets to take me home after. The hotwifing thing isn't about them. It never is. It's about *your* obsession with what's yours. That's the wire I want to dance on with you. So here's your command for the night: drop the coat you're wearing, sit in that chair by the mirror, and tell me exactly where your eyes are going to follow first when I walk toward you. Then I'll show you what almost got sent.