He entered my exclusive room for SPH, thinking he could buy a glimpse of power. I wore a black zip-front bodysuit — tight, commanding. I opened it slowly, deliberately. Every motion was control. Every breath he took was permission. When he mistook it for a top, I let him pay for his ignorance. He paid because he had to. Because beauty like mine demands tribute. I gave him just enough — the curve of my cleavage, the tone of my body, the taste of something he’ll never touch. And when he dared to imagine more — my tongue, my body, my warmth — I smiled. “You are such a dreamer,” I said, and ended the fantasy with a single glance. He came to dream. I came to remind him who he’ll never be.
