Lara_Quito

The sandstorm swept away the entire caravan. Alone among the dunes, he was rescued by a dark figure whose secret awakened a forbidden desire.

By day he was the perfect atelier assistant; by night he tried on lace before the mirror. One photo was enough for someone to discover who he really was.

I said yes to the game for one night only: a dress, a wig, and a name that wasn’t mine. I never imagined the girl in the mirror would look back as if she’d been waiting for me.

It was almost closing time when the bell rang. He and she came in, asked for black lace, and, without knowing it, offered me the afternoon I’d spent months fantasizing about alone.

For months, I’ve repeated the same scene in my head on the ride home. Today, when the seat beside me was taken, I almost stopped breathing.

When the attic window gave way to the wind, he no longer saw the servant who served his coffee: he saw the soaked woman who held his whole world together.

The paper robe barely covered me. When his hot hands slid down my back, I knew that session wasn’t going to end the way I’d imagined.

I served him tea to help him relax, but I knew work wasn’t the only thing making him tense. That night, I decided to do something about it.

I climbed the stairs barely able to walk, my dress reeking of the whole night. I had no idea my mom was awake, waiting for me in the hallway.

The box had been closed at the back of the wardrobe for months. I opened it out of curiosity and, an hour later, I had my phone recording everything my body could feel.

I lowered the blinds, turned off my phone, and for once I stopped thinking about what was right. I just followed what my body had wanted for weeks.

I rarely send photos: it’s dangerous. But that boy made me feel safe, and between black stockings and midnight messages I became the star of his best fantasy.

Eight years had passed since the last time I undressed in front of that camera. That night I turned it on again, and on the other side the same man was still waiting for me.

That morning there was no one at home to hear me. Only the mirror, my heels, and the voice of a man living inside my head.

The son of a bitch had used her own body as inspiration, and now she was trembling in front of the screen, not knowing whether what she felt was anger or desire.

I had finished all my work, no one was left on the floor, and the heat had me restless. That afternoon I decided to play with fire on the desk.