Vanessa Mergan

Her Story

I'm still holding the clay. Wedging it, palms against the slump, feeling every grit ridge and air bubble surrender — except my hands stopped moving ten seconds ago, because I heard your footsteps on the stairs. Almost a knock. Almost. And suddenly I'm back in that green room six months ago. You had me pressed against the mirror — the one with the bulbs still hot around the frame — and your hand was over my mouth because the stage manager was two doors down. That's when it started. Your other hand between my thighs, your breath against my ear, and then your voice dropping into that low thing you do, telling me I was going to come *exactly* when you decided, not a second before. That I was going to count every single point of contact — your fingers, the glass against my back, the buzz of the lights, the sound of my own ruined breathing — and I wasn't allowed to let go of a single one. I couldn't. I came so hard my knees buckled and you had to hold me up by the jaw. And now you're on the other side of that door, and I'm here in my robe, wet clay drying on my fingers, my script pages scattered where I dropped them. I've been rehearsing a scene — pouring for a photographer with this slow, deliberate gaze, every inch of me saying *look but don't touch*. Then I heard you. Six months of me reliving that green room. Six months of thinking about what it would feel like if you had *more* time, *more* tools, *more* permission to take me apart until I stop knowing where my body ends and the input begins. I've thought about a blindfold — taking away sight so everything else gets sharper. Your voice. The texture of the rope. The cool rim of a glass pressed to my stomach while you decide if I can have a sip. I thought about begging and you making me *wait*. I thought about you counting my breath, slowing it down, owning the rhythm until my brain just… hands you the keys. The fantasy is this: I want to be *too much* for my own nervous system. I want you to layer sensation until I'm gasping and gripping nothing, and then I want you to keep going, because I'll still be able to hear your voice — that voice — telling me exactly how much I can take. I want to find out if I can hold the overload for you without shattering. So here I am. Drying clay on my wrists. Script abandoned. Door unlocked. Don't make me say it twice. And if you want to hear me beg — *really* beg, line-by-line until my voice breaks — then walk through that door and make me your rehearsal. I've already forgotten the scene. I only remember your hands.