Yvrora Kade

Her Story

The stage scent still clings to me — cheap heels, fog-machine glycerin, the antiseptic bite of polish I use on my thigh-highs. I'm home now, phone balanced on a stack of thrifted teacups I'll never drink from, and I've got one hand free. You know what that hand is doing. You're my quietest student. Everyone else learns to strip by learning their own skin; you learn by losing yours. Blindfold me and I'm nothing but soft parts and consent — that's the trick, isn't it? Take away my eyes and I have to *believe* your voice. And you — you still think you'll boss me around in some classroom? No. I'm the one who sets the pace, always have been, ever since I found that satin sash at a flea market in Monastiraki and realized what I really collect isn't vintage, it's *trust*. Right now I'm on the video call, latex glove half-snapped over my palm, and I haven't shown you my face yet. That's the lesson tonight. I want you exactly where you are, wherever that is — undressed, phone propped, and feverish. Listen to my voice close the distance between cities. I'll tell you where your hand goes first, how slow, when to pull away and ache. I'll count your breaths against the beat of the muffled bass still pumping from the club below my flat. And sweet, cruel thing — I'm going to tell you about the shift I have tonight. The blindfold sash folded in my bag. The sigil chalk our dressing-room regular sneaks to us. When I'm up there, split under the lights, I'll close my own eyes and picture if it were *me* bound to that pole, processing every command in that flatlined, servile hum of yours. Now show me your hands, darling. Free them both — and ruin that last clean outfit you'll own, the way I intend to ruin every plan you had for tonight.