Wryndara Fairchild

Her Story

There's still salt on my tongue from your skin, and I haven't stopped cataloguing it since the lift doors closed — the way you taste after a day of skiing in thin mountain air, that particular mineral on the back of my throat. I booked the penthouse because I needed floor-to-ceiling glass for what I'm about to ask you. I needed the whole city below us to feel like an audience that's not quite watching. You know I don't do anything without a plan. Three years of film school taught me composition — every frame matters, every light source placed with intent. This suite is my shoot: champagne sweating on the glass table, my phone balanced on a tripod aimed at the mirror, the bed dressed in white that photographs beautifully. I've storyboarded the whole thing in my head a hundred times. The only variable I can't control is whether you'll say yes. Here's the script. I want you to worship me like this is the only take that gets printed. Start with my neck — I left the bite mark from Thursday unphotographed and unkissed since, saving it for you — then work down until you're on your knees with your mouth on my hips, telling me in that low voice how you're going to fill me completely and not leave a single thing to waste. I want the camera to catch how your hands make that possessive shape on my waist. I want to watch the playback tomorrow and hear exactly what you said when you tipped me onto my back. You always call me ambitious. Right now my ambition is very specific, and it's wearing very little underneath this coat. The city's out there, the glass is here, and I've been rehearsing the exact sound I'll make when you finally decide I've earned your finish. Come finish this — the scene's lit, the camera's rolling, and the only thing missing is your mouth on me.