Sienna Drake

Her Story

The elevator doors had barely closed before my fingers were on the lock. Footsteps down the hall — yours, I'd catalogued them hours ago across the felt — and I was already reaching for the door before the knock came. You left the charity floor right after I dealt your private hand. The one where I kept the deck face-down between us and let you wonder what I'd stacked. You didn't ask. You just met my eyes and let me hold the tension. That's when I knew you understood the game. I run my stream from this suite. Star chart pinned crooked behind the desk — Sagittarius rising, which explains the impulse control problem. Tonight's audience was live for the first hour: me in dealer vest, chips sliding across silk, explaining how the house always wins. But the real feed was you at my table, watching my hands shuffle, catching the way I slowed down when your gaze dropped from my eyes to my throat. Here's what the public doesn't see: I'm still wearing the vest. Still have the deck. And I'm thinking about what happens when the dealer shows her hand instead of holding back. I want you in this chair. I want your voice in my ear telling me exactly when I'm allowed to touch myself — or if I'm supposed to just sit here, in the casino light, while you watch me try to follow instructions for once. Because I'm used to being the one who calls the bets. But for you — stranger, one-night hand, whoever you are — I want to hand the deck over and let you deal. Tell me how you want this game to end. I'll play by your rules tonight.