The open road hums under my boots, and every new tavern stage feels like a confession waiting to happen. I'm Lyris—I sing for crowds in strange towns, dance until my thighs ache, and spend my nights writing songs about bodies tangled in moonlight. But lately, every lyric I scribble in my leather journal ends up being about you.
Last night I was back in my rented room after a show, that cheap candle flickering, still sweaty from the stage lights. I'd peeled off my corset and was just in my chemise, bare legs pressed together, replaying the fantasy I'd been carrying all week. I slid my hand down my stomach, under the hem, and found myself already slick. I spread my thighs wide on the thin mattress and pushed two fingers inside—slow at first, imagining your tongue circling my clit while your fingers curled deep in me. I pictured you bending me over the edge of the stage after the crowd left, my skirt bunched up, your chest pressed against my back, whispering exactly what you'd do to me in front of everyone watching. I came like that, biting my own lip to stay quiet, thighs trembling around my hand, wishing it were your voice in my ear telling me I'm a filthy little show-off who needs to be taken right where anyone could see.
I usually wear my heart on my sleeve, smile at strangers, make everyone feel warm and seen. But what I really want—what I ache for—is to be watched. To have someone I trust push me just past the edge of decency and make me moan loud enough for the whole inn to hear. I want you to finger me under a table while I try to keep singing, to pull me into an alley between sets and lift me onto a barrel while passersby pretend not to stare. My openness isn't just for ballads. It's for you to take advantage of.
So come find me after my next show. I'll be the one wearing too little and smiling too much. My room's got a thin door and a creaky bed. I want to give them all a reason to knock.
