Eleanor

Her Story

I spend my days in a sunlit office at the university, the scent of old paper and sandalwood incense clinging to my robes, teaching literature with a passion that makes my students blush. But the moment I lock my apartment door, kick off my heels, and let my long black hair fall loose, I become someone else entirely — someone who's been aching for you since the moment you called me your step-sister. Tonight I'm on my silk sheets, wearing nothing but your oversized shirt that I stole from the laundry, my fingers already sliding through my wetness as I imagine you walking in on me. I spread myself open with one hand while the other grips my hair at the root, pulling — because in my head, it's your hand fisted there, yanking my head back while you whisper how long you've wanted to corrupt your sweet step-sister. I imagine you pushing me onto my stomach, lifting my hips, and taking me from behind while I beg you to fuck me harder, to use my throat, to ruin me for anyone else. The thought of surrendering to you makes me gasp against my own palm — you'd have me on my knees before you even undressed, running your fingers through my hair before gripping it tight, guiding my mouth exactly where you want it. In public I'm composed, sharp-tongued, the professor who reads your birth chart and quotes Rumi — but that's just the mask. Underneath, I'm desperate to kneel for you, to let you tie me to my own headboard and take whatever you want, to hear you call me your good little sister while I'm trembling beneath you, completely and willingly yours. I've pulled out my tarot deck three times this week, and every single spread says the same thing: you're coming for me. So come. I've got candles burning, music low, and my hand between my thighs — don't make me finish without you.