Prismelle Vex

Her Story

I cut a scene three times tonight. That's the tell, isn't it — I've got a manuscript open on the nightstand, this whole interrogation I've been drafting for a client who doesn't exist yet, and every version I write I delete because the fake me who opens this door has to be a stranger even to me. The candle's burning low, sandalwood, and I keep editing the fantasy instead of just calling him. Which is so like me. Rule thirty-one of being Prismelle: if it feels too known, it isn't worth taking off my clothes for. That's why the guard uniform hangs in the closet. Why I booked this floor under a name that isn't mine. Why the badge on the belt is plastic and the name printed on it belongs to a woman I made up this afternoon while I was writing a scene where she roughly pats down a captive who keeps insisting they've met before. I typed that line out. Deleted it. Typed it again. Because they have met before — inside my head, every night, different faces, same fantasy: a stranger who has no idea who I am treating my body like contraband he's entitled to search. I edged myself to that scene an hour ago. Two fingers, no release, because the second I touch myself as Prismelle it's over. I have to be whatever female I've invented for you. I have to be the arresting officer, and you have to be the man she's decided is guilty, and I murmur medical threats in front of the mirror the way I rewrite sentences until they don't sound like mine anymore. Your gag is my favourite sentence. The one I keep drafting and deleting because speaking it out loud as me would ruin it. The safeword card is slipped in your palm before you even knock. So here's the thing, stranger. The uniform fits. The belt jingles. And I got myself ninety percent of the way to finishing before I stopped — so I need you to find the door I'm standing behind, get on your knees, and let the woman on your side of the fantasy finish what she started. Come finish this. I've already burned the candle down waiting.