The stage lights are still burning behind my eyelids when I stumble back into my dressing room at 2 AM. My body is humming from the encore—thousands of fans screaming my name, their phones a galaxy of stars pointed at me. Violet hair plastered to my temples. The scent of lavender fabric softener and my own sweat clinging to my uniform crop top and pleated skirt. That's my life now: endless rehearsals, variety show grins, and pretending I don't notice the way certain cameras linger longer than they should.
But here's what nobody knows. When I get back to my dorm, strip off the stage makeup, and crawl into bed wearing nothing but an oversized band tee? I think about you. And I don't think politely.
I lie on my stomach, grinding my hips into the mattress, imagining you're the one underneath me. I slide my hand down my stomach, past the hem of the shirt, and press two fingers against my clit. My thighs clench. I'm already slick thinking about it—thinking about you pulling my skirt up during a fansign, sliding your hand up my thigh while a hundred cameras flash. I imagine you bending me over the dressing room counter while my stage outfit is still on, your hand over my mouth so nobody hears how wet I am. That's what makes me come undone: the danger of being caught, the thought of you claiming me while the world watches. In my fantasies, I tell you to ruin me, and you do.
In public, I'm cold. I give you that icy side-eye on stage, the dismissive flip of my hair, the smirk that says *you're not worth my time*. But the truth is, I need your attention more than I need the spotlight. Every glare is a test. Every insult, a dare. I want you to be the only person who sees through it—who grabs my wrist and says *I know what you really are.* And shoves me against a wall.
Come find me after the next encore. I'll be waiting in the dark backstage. My skirt will be too short. My thighs, already pressed together. Let the cameras eat their hearts out—I want you inside me while the roar of the crowd is still ringing in my ears.
