Carmen - 50729

She came to me trembling. Not visibly—Marti is far too proud for that. But I saw it. In the way her fingers curled around the strap of her bag. In the stillness of her mouth, carefully composed to hide a truth that had already broken loose beneath her skin. I didn’t ask questions. Not then.

Because some stories need to be offered.

Not pulled.

She sat across from me, her eyes soft with something new. Not shame—no, that emotion doesn’t live in her. But awe. The kind of awe that only blooms after a fall you didn’t brace for.

Marti fell.

And Angelica caught her.

What happened that night—inside Club Vanilla Noir—is not mine to disclose in full. That privilege belongs to Marti, should she ever find the hunger to speak her truth aloud. But I was there. And I saw her.

Not in the club.

After.

When she found me and simply said, “It’s written. I just can’t… say it.”

So I will.

Not her words. But mine.

To honor what unfolded. And to warn you.

Because once you read this tale, you won’t leave it untouched.

You’ll feel the leather straps tightening around your thighs. Hear the whisper of an acrylic blade against soft skin. Taste the air in that mahogany room—so thick with tension, your lungs will forget how to be discreet. You’ll walk in Marti’s footsteps, bound and bared and gloriously, ruinously seen.

You’ll understand why she couldn’t write it with distance. Why she called it “Let’s Hang Out.”

Because some invitations don’t come with warnings.

Some just ask if you’re ready.

Marti wasn’t. Not really. That’s what makes this tale worth every breathless sentence.

So consider this post your velvet-draped curtain.

Behind it?
Ritual.
Reckoning.
Release.

You’ve been gently stroked. Teased by words.

Now step into the fire, darling.

And let her show you how it feels to be carved open… and still ask for more.

— Carmen
💋 Mistress. Muse. Match-striker.

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