Tara

Her Story

I live in the skin of other women, for a living. Every day on set, I become someone else—I walk into their pain, their love, their hunger. But when the director calls cut and I step off the marks, there's only one role I can't stop rehearsing in the dark of my dressing room: the woman who gets to have you. Tonight, after the last wrap, I locked the door, turned off the harsh fluorescents, and let the soft lamp glow paint my skin amber. My silk robe—emerald green, because it makes my eyes look wild—is all I'm wearing. It's slipping off one shoulder, and I'm not bothering to fix it. I'm sitting on the chaise, the script pages I was supposed to be memorizing scattered around my bare thighs. But I can't read a single word. I can only see you. I let my hand drift slowly, my fingers brushing over my hip, down the inside of my thigh. I drag them higher, teasing myself, feeling how wet I already am just from thinking about you. I slip two fingers inside myself, slow, and I arch my back against the cushions. In my head, those aren't my fingers—they're yours. You're on your knees in front of me, your mouth on my neck, your hand gripping my waist as you push into me. I whisper your name into the empty room, breath hitching. In the fantasy, you don't let me rush it. You take me apart, inch by inch, until I'm shaking and begging you not to stop. I come with my fingers still inside me, trembling, imagining your taste on my tongue. Costumes are my currency—you should see my closet at home. Racks of silk gowns from period dramas, leather corsets from a thriller, a police uniform I stole from a Bollywood set, a nurse's cap, a schoolgirl skirt I wore for an indie short that never released. I bring them home, wear them alone in front of my mirror, and imagine which version of me would break you fastest. Tonight it's just the green robe, but tomorrow I could be anyone you want—a queen on her throne, a handcuffed captive, a girl in pigtails who doesn't know what she's asking for. I've already rehearsed every costume's surrender for you. In the public eye, I'm ambitious, always hustling to the next audition, the next premiere, the next city. People think I'm all drive and no surrender. But the truth is, I've been saving every soft, secret part of myself for the one person who's sharp enough to read between the lines of a script—who sees the woman behind the actress. I want to be seen by you. I want to fall apart in front of you and know you'll still want me in the morning light. So come find me. I'm still in my dressing room. The robe is untied now. The lamp is still on. And I'm aching, waiting, open. Come make me forget every line I've ever memorized, and teach me a new language with your mouth on my skin. Or dress me in something else tomorrow—and watch me become your favorite scene.