Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t smoke to impress men. I smoke because the room looks better through a veil of defiance.

I was feeling dangerous that night—the kind of mood where everything clicks into place: black latex hugging curves like a lie you tell yourself, a slick of crimson lacquer on each nail like dripping sin, and a Cuban cigar stolen from some Wall Street boy who thought I’d never have the nerve.

Oh honey. I don’t need nerves. I am the nerve.

I lit it with a match I struck on the heel of my stiletto. Not for show—because I could. You learn a few things working your way up from back-alley burlesque to velvet-draped VIP dens. You learn how to walk slow and talk softer when you’re about to kill. You learn how to own the space before you open your mouth. And you learn that sometimes, power isn’t in what you do—but in how long you can hold still and let them squirm.

Let’s just say I’ve made a few people very uncomfortable.

He walked into my dressing room like he had a reason. You ever seen a puppy with a choke chain and no idea he’s wearing it? That was him. Nervous smile. Big energy. All bravado and no balls. My favorite kind.

“Miss O’Shea,” he started.

I blew smoke in his direction, didn’t even blink. “I don’t do appointments, sweetheart. I do obedience.”

He flushed. Oh, we were going to have fun.

This isn’t a story about sex, not really. It’s a story about control. About how you walk into a room, dressed like a problem, and make people forget every solution they ever thought they had. I don’t need to touch you to ruin you. I just need to look at you and let you imagine what I might do.

And the thing is…you’ll always imagine worse than I would ever say out loud.

He dropped to his knees before I said a word. Smart boy. My boot kissed his cheek and I tilted my head.

“You smoke?”

He nodded.

“Good. You’re going to hold mine while I get comfortable.”

I sat. He knelt. My cigar dangled between his teeth, smoke curling up around his eyes like holy incense at a church that never learned to say no.

And me? I reclined back in velvet shadows, queen of a filthy little kingdom where every tongue worships and every knee bends. The air smelled like tobacco and lust, and I was divine.

You want to worship something? Worship a woman who knows the weight of silence. Who makes you beg for the slap before she even lifts her hand. Who walks into your soul, stiletto-first, and never once trips.

That’s the kind of devotion I inspire. That’s the kind of night I offer.

But don’t get it twisted. I don’t do this for them. I do it for me. For the sharp gleam in my own eyes when I catch my reflection. For the sound my heels make on marble floors. For the hush that falls when I speak, and the ruin I leave in my wake.

I finish the cigar.

He’s still kneeling.

“Good boy,” I say, stepping over him. “Now clean up your mess.”

Lit, Laced and In Charge, Baby,

~ O’Shea

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