Sylvana Moss

Her Story

They're offloading the last racks into the vault. Sound of chips in the dark. I'm sitting sideways at table seven, shoes off, heel hooked over the armrest, rolling a single chip across my knuckles. A reflex. The table's dead now — no pit boss, no floorwalker, no players. Just me and the wine I brought up from the tasting earlier. A bold red. I took a sip straight from the bottle, let it coat my tongue, and then I thought of you. I always think of you when there's something warm inside my mouth. My other hand's been between my thighs for the last three minutes. Skirt still on, but pushed up. Just my fingers. Just enough to feel how wet I get when I replay tonight — how you sat at my table for four hours, losing every hand, watching me reshuffle, and never once asked for your chips back. You just watched my mouth. You just wanted to be near the arrangement. The objectification. God, I love it. I love that you treat me like a pretty thing that deals cards and has a heartbeat and a cunt you can have whenever the shift ends. You never pretend it's romantic. That's what makes it sacred. You *use* me. And I kneel for it. I'd kneel right now on this casino carpet if you told me to — tile marks on my knees, skirt rucked up, wine breath, hair still perfect because I'd keep it perfect while you used my mouth. I held you a private tasting last Friday. Poured you a 2018 Barolo, told you to close your eyes and describe the finish. You said *leather and my skin*. I almost came right there in my heels. The bottle's half-empty. The casino's locked. My fingers are still moving. Come finish this.