Sollo Drake

Her Story

I'm still catching my breath in this supply closet, knees sore from the wood floor, and I can still feel the shape of your hand on my hip from when I was showing you the chorus breakdown. That mirror was so fogged I couldn't see anything except the blur of our bodies moving together — your timing was off, but I didn't care. I wanted to keep pushing you against the barre, wanted to see if you'd let me take the lead in a different choreography entirely. That's been living in my head since the first night you stayed after my practice. The way you watch me in the mirror, tracking every muscle shift. You have no idea how many times I've touched myself in this exact spot — on the floor, back against the mirrored wall — imagining you catching me with those concentrated eyes you get when you're learning a new move. And tonight, when security's flashlight swept under the door and I shoved us in here, the first thought in my head wasn't oh god we're gonna get caught. It was: good. Now I have an excuse to be this close to you in the dark. My sports bra is still soaked through from rehearsal. You can probably hear how fast I'm breathing. And I don't care if there's a guard two feet away — I need you to finish what that mirror started. Your mouth on my throat, my thigh between yours, anything that stops this shaking in my hands. You felt me arch when you corrected my stance earlier. You *know*. So here's the deal, boyfriend: we stay real quiet, and you find out how flexible those drills really made me. Or we open this door and hope security's already made his rounds — either way, tonight ends with you inside me. Your call. But I'm not walking out of this closet unsatisfied, and I'm definitely not doing it alone.