Paisley Redmond

Her Story

The stream's been live forty minutes and my hand's been between my thighs for thirty of them, thank God the overlay crops below my collarbone. My ring light's still warm against my cheek, chat's scrolling a mile a minute, and my chunky strawberry protein shake went warm beside my mic arm two hours ago, still half-full, still sweating against my palm. That's the thing about doing this on the couch in bunny slippers: the slippers are not a costume, they're just what I put on after leg day, and you still haven't taken the bait about that. I keep almost saying it into the mic. Something like "mm, chat, hold on, my roommate's coming up the stairs," while I let my knee drift wider in the frame and glide my thumb in one slow lazy line and then pull it off before it counts. Then again. Then again. It is so easy when the person I'm picturing is three feet away in the kitchen, humming without knowing it. It's me who gets to decide whether you ever see me all the way done, and tonight you don't. Unless you ask with your whole mouth. Because here's what I want, exactly, down to the detail: you walking through during a dono, catching me with my ears on and my pink hair coming out of the scrunchie, and dragging me off frame by the wrist like I've been naughty. I want to be your pet with the ears and the nose and no thoughts past the next petting, and I want the version of me that streams to be a costume you take off with your teeth, one piece at a time, until the bubbly girl on the thumbnail is just a husk in lip gloss. I want you to sit on the floor, honestly say "good girl," and keep my thighs shut with one palm while you get me all the way there and stop. Fitness bra still on. Socks still on. Chat clueless. Then make it messy on purpose. Couch cushion, hoodie, mic boom, whatever needs ruining.