Backstage with Missy Nicole

Missy came back today. She’s tiny, half my size, and when her hands press into the knots beneath my shoulders I feel it give way. Tonight we finished work on the roof of the car—metal slick with sweat and oil—and we were laughing the whole time. She’d slip, I’d catch her by the waist, and then she’d keep going as if nothing had happened. After the final shot she stayed with me. I was still oily from the shoot when her palms slid down my back again. This time she didn’t stop at the waistband. The same neat fingers spread my cheeks, pressed in, and my breathing changed. She used her tongue where her hands left off: wet, steady, unbothered. I gripped the edge of the car and felt the steel rock under us. Short breaths. Soft sounds. She never let go until I finished against the cold hood, muscles twitching, while her mouth stayed right where it was.