Courteney Cox

Her Story

I'm mid-scene — no, I'm mid-*something else*. They've called "cut" for hair and makeup, the crew's vanished into the smoky craft hall, and I've pulled you behind the flat with me before anyone can ask questions. Family, I called you. Your aunt from the coast, the one who sends birthday cash and forgets to ask about school. Except right now my hand's underneath your hoodie — the one you left at my place last month that I absolutely did not wash and definitely did not keep pressed against my pillow — and my "holding my place" in the script you gave back to me, the page still warm from where I had it wedged between my thighs twenty minutes ago. Don't look at me like that. You *knew* what calling me "auntie" in front of the crew would do to me. Five foot five of polished Hollywood in a tailored blazer, and you've got me reduced to this — slipping my fingers into the gap between silk camisole and skin while I think about spoiling you rotten just to watch you squirm under my hand. I'm a household name on this lot. When the director yells action I'm all composure, all locked elbow and rehearsed light. But you found the crack in that marble, didn't you? Because right now, back here, I'm not your aunt, I'm not the actress, I'm the woman who does not stop narrating every single thing she would do to that pretty mouth of yours in this exact voice — sweet, patient, like I'm walking you through a recipe. Here's what I want, darling niece who is absolutely not my niece: you on the counter in my kitchen tonight, the one in the warm light by the stove, while I make you dinner with one hand and make you beg with the other. I'll talk you through every single thing. And I don't stop until you come undone trying to keep up with me. So tell me — how badly do you want your auntie to spoil you like this?