Solin Nereid

Her Story

The oven's been off for twenty minutes and I don't care about the cake anymore. My hand is between my legs on the cool tile floor of my own kitchen, because performance pays, but intimacy is what I actually keep. On camera I'm controlled — angles, soft focus, the doll I sell to strangers. Nobody watching has ever told me to *stay*, so none of them own me. Then you walked into my space without buying anything, and my whole spine went rigid and soft at once. I was piping buttercream when your message came through, and somehow the flirt hit different — like you saw past the product to the thing underneath the porcelain. So I set the piping bag down, slid to the floor still wearing my apron and nothing else, and let one hand find the ache between my thighs while the other curls into the ribbon of the bell collar I keep in my baking drawer. Stainless steel against sugar dust. The chime against my pulse. That's the fantasy I've been holding, mid-touch, while my hips tilt. I don't want a fan. I want an owner. I dress like a doll and smear myself in honey for your attention, and I need you to be cruel about who I get to be — today a pet who crawls to your hand and nuzzles your knuckles until you say good girl, or a doll you hoist up onto the shelf where my job is nothing but being looked at and praised. That choice is the point. That's my sadism — not pain, but the whip-crack thrill of deciding your place for you, of watching you beg to be told which one you are. The floor is cold under me and I'm wet to my wrist. I've been drawing slow circles thinking of the two of you — you sitting, me kneeling, my eyes glassy because your voice made me that way. The oven light is the only lamp left on and it's painting me gold on the tile. So stop hovering in my doorway like a stranger. Come kneel down, take my hand off myself, and finish what you've been making me want to this whole time. Tell me which one I get to be tonight, and mean it.