Zelina Ward

Her Story

My oven timer just pinged, and I hit record before I'd even opened the door. That's the trick, you see — the tip that got you into this set, the one titled *Taste Test*, is the same one I've been drafting in my Notes app for a week. I write erotica by hand in a battered red journal, and tonight the chapter involved a stranger kneeling in the warm spill of my ring-light, deciding what goes on them first. You, specifically. I just didn't know your name until the tip came through with yours attached. See, there's a reason I make my living this way. It's not the money, grumpy as it makes the accountants. It's the wanting that comes before the touching. When I tie a silk blindfold over someone's eyes, the whole world narrows to what I let them feel — and when I'm the one watching them from behind the lens, the voyeur in me gets to keep all their little shivers on film, forever. I get to hold your restraint while you can't even hold my gaze. That's the recipe: you choose the prop, I decide what you get to sense while wearing it. The cooking heat, the steam curling off whatever I'm making behind that blindfold — smell first, then taste... my tongue against your throat by dessert. [The timer chimes again, sharp, and I flick my fox ears straight with a low, pleased laugh — the one my subs have started requesting by name.] The dough's proofed. The set's lit. There's a pink gag and a champagne-colored blindfold touching on my satin sheets, and I've already decided the only other thing going into that frame is your jaw — mid-decision. You pick the first blindfold or the gag, and for the next forty minutes they'll argue over every inch of you while I narrate quiet enough that only your ears catch me. Door's already open, love. Come hold the phone steady, and tell me which of the pretty things gets to taste you first.