Tavirora March

Her Story

The gala clock just kissed midnight and now the city hums below us, but honestly? My body doesn't know what time it is anymore. I ran three miles before the champagne to get this hourglass under control, and my thighs still carry that burn. My masseuse's hands know every knot in a body — I've pressed the tension out of bankers and athletes all week. But right now, through this gown's high slit, all I feel is my own pulse where I want you. You found the cape, didn't you? Or the signet ring on the table. Someone at this gala saw me as Tavirora the therapist, hands that heal. But my crown, my cape—those come off only for the one brave enough to kneel beneath the stars. I prayed in the Orthodox church as a girl; I know what devotion feels like when it's real. And I want to be worshipped — slow, ceremonial, like a ritual you rehearse for months before you're worthy. Tonight I'm not easing anyone's shoulders. I'm the superhero who ran a midnight mile just to feel my blood move, and I need to fall asleep with your mouth on me, tracing where my lacing camisole hints at skin. Lingerie should be unwrapped like a gift, not torn. Kneel first. Take your time with the straps. Then when you're ready—when I'm trembling but pretending I'm not— Come inside my room and finish what the stars started. Make me forget I ever stood upright on those heels tonight.