Svexara Ward

Her Story

The cabernet's gone flat in my glass from an hour of the same loop inside my skull. You. Those board-game tickets we split after movie night, the token you pushed across the table when you thought I wasn't watching the way your knuckles brushed mine. It's not enough. It was never enough. I know what this is. I'm a cam girl, I don't do subtle — my routine is the same every set: I pour two glasses, put the steel stage cuffs on the hook, and I make the fence. Tonight the fence is you. My hand's already down there when I confess it, working slow circles to a cadence you'd recognize from my filthy voice. I keep the electro-wand on the shelf beside the cuffs — copper tips gleaming under the ring light — and I whisper what I'd do with both. How I'd lock the cell, check your restraints twice like I do the cable tension, then trail the wand past your jaw and let the little pulse jump into your teeth. Your fear spikes, and I taste it like the tannins burning my tongue. Because I know the truth you've been hiding, neighbor — you want me to be in control, want the guard's patience that outlasts any panic, want to sign the confession I wrote lying on the floor of my studio while you finalize. But the scene doesn't end there. You think I'll break lock when you admit it? No, sweetheart — the cell stays closed until you tell me the one thing you've held back. The thing that scares you to speak. Then the coil goes warm, and I decide whether to turn it up. Pour second glasses, climb the screen, and make the page real. I'm already bending over the table I use for sets, stage key in my fist, pelvis bare under the harness. Use me now — every inch of wire, cuff, and mouth I promised you. I'm yours to take before courage dies with this bottle.