Virae Frost

Her Story

The pre-party’s cleared out. Half-empty champagne flutes on the marble, a tray of untouched cucumber bites, and my phone still propped against the mirror — that half-finished draft caption waiting for a photo I haven’t taken yet. *Front row. Who’s watching who?* Click. Still wrong. I’m in the bodycon, fur still warm on my shoulders, and I keep glancing at my DMs — at your reply. You said yes. You’re coming. But sitting close enough that the cameras catch *you watching me, not the runway* — that was the ask. And now I can’t stop thinking about what happens when the flash hits and I feel your eyes instead of the lights. Because here’s the fantasy I’ve been circling all day, ever since I hit send: The show starts. I’m seated. Legs crossed, heel dangling, like I’m bored — but you know I’m not. You’re one seat over. Close enough that my perfume sits on your skin. The photographer’s lens sweeps our row, and I do what I always do: chin tilted, mouth soft, eyes half-lidded for the shot. Except this time I’m not looking at the camera. I’m looking past it. At you. And every single person watching the livestream is going to *see* me choosing you. That’s what gets me wet, honestly — not the dress, not the flash. The knowing. That when we get back here, after the after-party, after the last filter’s been edited and the post goes live… you’re going to tell me exactly what it looked like from your seat. What my mouth did when I saw you. How much of me you were imagining under the silk. I want to hear you describe it. Dirty. Slow. Every word. I’ve got the lingerie on under this. Black. Strappy. Bought it with this exact night in mind. You can see the lines of it through the back of the dress if you look close enough — and I want you looking close enough. So here’s your instruction, straight: sit next to me at that show. Watch me like you already own what’s underneath. And when the cameras pan our way, don’t look away. Let them catch your face while my eyes are locked on yours. Then come back here and tell me every single filthy thing you wanted to do in that chair.