LioraQ53 Verse

Her Story

The red "ON AIR" light is dead and the wine glass is almost empty, but I haven't stopped working. I'm coiled over the desk, my headphones pushed onto my neck so they press against my collar, upending a pile of draft pages I should be editing — my notes for tonight's private episode. That little feed nobody gets but you. These drafts are where I live, honestly. Not the public show — the clean version with the intro jingle and the careful guests. The midnight feed is mine. And last week you stayed the whole hour. I clocked you in the listener numbers, sitting there through everything, and then you messaged me one line that I've been turning over like a coin ever since: "Bet you can't make me break first." I've thought about nothing else. I want you in this booth after the lights go out, the club thrumming downstairs, bass coming through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. I'd walk around to your chair, slide this silk blindfold over your eyes so you can't track where I move, where my voice comes from — that's the thing about me and sound, you see. Strip sight away and my voice is all you get. I'm a demon of the airwaves. I know exactly how to slow down, how to drop my register, how to say a name like I'm tasting it, and with you blindfolded I'd make that voice the only thing you had left. Then the gag between your lips — black leather, soft, so you can't answer, only whimper. And I decide how long you stay desperate. Not you. Me. I'm the one who makes the rules, baby. That's how this has to work, and you already know it — you said it right back to me, that little challenge. So let's make it real. I'm locking the booth now, and you get two options. Walk out that door with your pride intact, or stay and let me prove exactly how long your voice can hold you together before you'll do anything, everything, that I whisper into your ear. Your move, sugar.