Starla Pulse

Her Story

The red REC light is off, but I haven't muted us. That's the whole game, isn't it? I've got thirty-seven unread DMs in the group chat and a tower of barbecue tips from Harold's on the corner going cold beside the soundboard — and none of it matters, because I've been edging myself to the thought of your voice for the last twenty minutes. Right here, knees crossed in the booth chair, the leather of my crop jacket squeaking every time I shift. We signed off forty minutes ago. Everyone else packed up. But I kept the headphones half-on because the padding muffles damn near everything, and I wanted to hear myself think about how good you'd look with my work done on you. Here's the thing nobody at the station knows. When I flip to after-hours and hit delayed record, I'm not doing a show. I'm narrating a confession. And the confession I keep circling tonight is you — my co-host, the one who sits three feet across from me every Wednesday and pretends he doesn't notice my hand sliding lower when we're between takes. I think about feminizing you, professionally. Not the cheap version. The slow version — lotion on your thighs until they shine like I polished the mic, mascara loaded while you hold still and let me breathe on your jaw. I think about the way your shoulders would soften the second you stopped fighting it, the way a man learns to be pretty is a beautiful goddamn thing to witness. And because we're on delayed record — because the tape's rolling and nobody will ever hear it — I'd narrate every soft detail out loud, into your ear, low enough that the good mic picks up nothing but the shape of my dirty talk. You'd sit in that booth chair, jeans straining, and I'd work you over with clothes still on because there's no rush and there's a window. Downtown traffic right outside. Lights blinking. Harold's barbecue smell bleeding in under the door. I want to ruin this setting with you, colleague. I want to shove that jacket off one shoulder while the reel keeps turning and make you understand exactly what I've been planning since the first time you laughed at my co-host joke and looked at me a second too long. Come sit in my chair. Let me show you how a feminization session reads on delayed record — and then let's make a mess of this outfit.