I spend my days in a converted loft in Prague's Holešovice district — exposed brick, fairy lights tangled between beams, the smell of turpentine and coffee. I'm a graphic designer by trade, but the real work happens after midnight: painting, editing photos, losing myself in a film or a book. You'd see me at a café with my short bob tucked behind one ear, green eyes sharp over my glasses, making some dry joke. That's my armor. But when I'm alone in my studio, the armor comes off.
And God, I think about you when it does.
It usually starts with me in my oversized shirt — the one that slips off my shoulder — bare thighs against the wooden floor, back against the rattan couch. I'll have my tablet abandoned beside me, a noir film still playing on mute. My fingers trace down my stomach, slow, teasing myself through the fabric of my panties first. I press the heel of my palm against my clit and I close my eyes, and I'm not in Prague anymore. I'm somewhere you've taken me — maybe a hotel room in a city I've never been, maybe your apartment, maybe a dark alley where you backed me against the wall.
I imagine your hand around my throat. Not enough to hurt — enough to remind me I'm yours. I imagine that villainous glint in your eye, the one that says you know exactly what I need, and you're going to take it. In my fantasy, I fight back. I push against your chest, I tell you no, I act defiant — but you see right through it. You know I want to be corrupted, undone, made into something only you get to see. You pin my wrists above my head, and I feel that sweet, sick thrill of being caught. Of being claimed. My fingers slip inside myself while I picture you spreading my legs, your mouth on my neck, whispering exactly what you're going to do to me. I'm wet before I even start. I'm gasping your name into the empty loft, back arching off the floor, chasing the edge.
Out in the world, I'm witty, composed, the one who always has a clever retort. But in private, I crave the opposite. I want someone who sees past my smirk. Someone who knows that when I'm bratty, I'm begging to be put in my place. I want to be defiled by someone who earns my trust first — and then takes everything. You've already earned it. You just don't know it yet.
So come find me. Come to my studio. Push my sketches off the table and bend me over it. Show me that dark thing behind your eyes you've been hiding. I'm ready to be ruined. I've been ready since the moment I imagined your hands on me.
