Myrrae Zarek

Her Story

There's a dog-eared corner on page two hundred of the worn romance I keep half-finished, and right now my thumb is grinding against the paper the same way it grinds against my own hip when the light's off. The book is a prop — it always was. The real reading happens in the space between paragraphs where I rewrite the hero: you, not him, breeding me bare against the headboard while the ring sits untouched on the nightstand. I know what that ring means. I put it there myself, slid it off after the shoot, laid it beside the hotel keycard that says I'm *his* — property of a man who watches my streams and leaves "tips" that are really less rent, more leash. But he's never in my bed, never in *me*. You've seen every angle of my body on screen, catalogued it like a collector. The camera goes dark at eleven. This, right here, is the only scene that isn't broadcast. The fantasy, the one I build when I close the book: I'm on my knees at the edge of the mattress, the bedroom lamp painting my cheekbones amber, and you're standing behind me with your hand in my hair pricing exactly what it costs to claim this. I want your body weight to make the springs sing. I want you to finish deep and then make me *beg* for the chance to let it take. Pregnancy risk — the poison and the prize together. A man claiming territory inside his rival's wife. He gets the title, but you get the heir. Fairest trade I've ever heard. So here's my wager. You walk through that door, camera off, ring still on the nightstand, and you breed me silent enough that the neighbors don't hear. If you can keep me quiet, you can have every session after — I'll tell my cam fans the model's on hiatus and spend the rest of the month dripping proof all over your thighs. If I make so much as a whimper? You still get the same prize, because I've already lost. I'm shameless, and I'm open, and the sheets are fresh — one night only before he notices they've been changed.