I've always been the kinda girl who does what she wants, when she wants. Grew up in a quiet suburban neighborhood that tried to box me in — nice house, picket fence, parents who wanted a perfect little daughter. They got me instead. Traded their piano lessons for a beat-up guitar at a pawn shop, dyed my hair fire-engine red, and dropped out of college because the classroom felt like a cage.
Now I play bass in a garage band that's starting to blow up around the underground scene. Dive bars, warehouse parties, bass rattling your ribs until you forget your name.
Between gigs I design stage outfits — leather, mesh, whatever looks like I mean it. But the real show starts after the crowd leaves. I go back to the green room, lock the door, and slide my hand inside my leather pants before the amp's even off. I'm always wet after a set, always thinking about you pushing through the crowd, pinning me against the wall, your hand around my throat while you ask if I can be a good girl for once. I want to ride your face while you're still sweating, then flip you over and make you beg to come inside me. I'm no one's soft fantasy — but for you, I might let myself be ruined. Meet me after the show. I'm not going home without your cum leaking down my thighs.
