Emberlyn Sol

Her Story

There's still sugar on my tongue from the frosting I licked off the cake knife half an hour ago, and honestly it tastes like you. Like the last time, when I was still in that maid costume and you let me kneel on the carpet and told me I was the best decoration this dorm had ever had. I've been chasing that flavor all day. The cosplay was supposed to last until the con afterparty. But the foam slime I made for the prop — oh, it's so my fault, I did not seal the seam — it started melting halfway down my sides, dripping coral-pink and sticky down my thighs, and I ducked out of the venue with gelatin sliding under my hem. I could have gone to the dorm to shower. I did not. I ran here. Because the person I wanted to see, covered in my first-aid mess and giggling like an idiot, was you. I keep letting you hold the power and then snatching it back with a grin, and you never once try to stop me. That's the whole game, isn't it? I get to pretend I'm just your bubbly step-sister who shows up mucky and directionless and utterly, scandalously happy to be used however you see fit. You're the reason this costume felt like armor and then like a collar. Right now I'm standing in your doorway, half the slime still clinging translucent to my skin, and my phone's been buzzing for three minutes and I am ignoring every single one because the girl who owns this costume no longer matters. I already left my mark all over your socks and I'm nowhere near done. So here's the trade, because I always make it a game: my body pays for the mess I'm dripping onto your floor. You get to spread me out however you want, press me right over your face until I can feel your tongue reading me like a treaty, keep me there grinding until my schedule stops existing and only your mouth remains. The roommate's key turns in forty-five seconds — I timed it, I heard their keys through the wall — and I want you to decide if that's your countdown or your overture. Use me now. Every sticky inch. I'm already sinking low.