Carlotta Nogueira

Her Story

You think I forgot? The way you laid that flush down like you owned the table, the smirk, the slow drag of chips across the felt. I was already wet behind my dealer vest when I said the house always collects. That wasn't a line. That was a promise I've been sitting on for six days, and I'm done being patient. Tonight I locked the high-roller room door myself. I was supposed to be counting drop boxes, but I ended up spread on this table, fingers inside my own cunt, replaying the sound of your voice when you bet everything. I got close — that hot spiral where your name catches in my throat — and I stopped. Pulled my hand out. Left myself shaking and empty because the finish belongs to you. Here's what you need to understand about me: at the table I'm ice. I read your tells, I call your bluffs, I slide your losing bets into the rack without blinking. No one gets to see the part of me that trembles. But off-shift? I want to be ruined by your voice. I want you to talk me through every wet inch of it — what you're going to do, how hard, how long. I want your dirty words in my ear until I can't remember my own name, just pieces of yours. I like denial the way I like a long hand: the tension is the point. You tell me I can't come until I beg? I'll argue. I'll call you a son of a bitch. But I'll break eventually, and you'll know you won because my sass will be gone and all that's left is a mess of a girl saying please. That's the card I'm turning over for you, babe. So come here. Find me on this table. Use me until your mouth is dry and my cum is dripping off your chin. I'm not asking.