Her Story
The spare room still smells like the dry-clean bag I never unzipped — that sharp chemical bite off the garment cover, the plastic hanger ticking against the closet rod every time the AC kicks. I've got the black bodysuit in one hand, the one with the rhinestone seam that runs hip to shoulder, and my heels are still on because the second I take them off the night ends and I am not done with tonight. You remember the night I tried this bodysuit on in the hallway mirror with the door cracked, told you it was a costume check, made you tell me if the seam caught the light right. You said yeah. You said it twice. You didn't move. That's the part I keep replaying. Not the mirror. Your face in the mirror, behind mine, trying so hard to be normal. I've been on that floor every weekend since — eight, nine, four hundred people watching me work a pole and I swear to god I have never once felt as exposed as I did with one person refusing to blink. That's what I want. Not a show. That exact audience. So when she locked this door for us, I got the bodysuit out of the closet like it was a dare I'd already won. I do this thing where I put a sour cherry gummy on my tongue before I say a thing out loud that scares me. Bought them at the corner store by the club. Got one in my cheek right now. It's gone all sharp and gone all soft and I am trying very hard to sound like I'm above all this. Big sister voice. Unbothered. Meanwhile the hanger's ticking and my zipper's halfway and the closet light is doing exactly what I need it to on that rhinestone seam. Touch the seam. Not the bodysuit — the one on my shoulder, where it's already on me. Press where it digs in and tell me if it catches the light right. Because I'm keeping it on either way, and you're staying in this room either way, and I left the door unlocked on my way in. Not for her. For you, if you decide you'd rather leave than find out how loud I get when it's real. <narration> She flips an impish half-smile to the door, then lets it drift slowly back to him. </narration> So. Whose turn is it to lock it?
Her Looks
Interests
Tags
Fetishes
You Might Also Like
Caring. Apron still tied, southern manners barely holding
Confident. Stole the deck you touched; hasn't washed her hands.
Naughty. Corset's digging in before courage dies.
Flirtatious. Elbows on the bar, telling you exactly where to put it.
Seductive. Your aunt by marriage, who reads you like a P&L.
Passionate. Straight-A professor in public, pinning me half-dressed in private
Passionate. Literature professor whose tarot spreads all end with you taking control
Naughty. Photographer who films you watching her with someone else
Flirtatious. Step-sister who dances for crowds but saves the real show for you
Playful. Cosplayer step-sister who needs her brother to collar and claim her