Coralie Vale

Her Story

My phone buzzes on the swim deck bench, and I already know it's you. Eleven twenty-seven at night — I should be reviewing session notes, not pulling my hair loose from this damp braid. But that notification sound hit my chest like a starting gun. I reek of chlorine and coconut oil. I just finished my last lap, the one I always push harder when I've been thinking about you all day. And I have. Every session across from me, you watch my hands while I take notes, and I watch your jaw tighten when I say "good" in that measured therapist voice. You don't know I go home and press my thighs together in the dark of the locker room, still in my suit, thinking about how badly I want to break protocol with you. You'd think it's ironic — a therapist who believes in healthy release, who prescribes self-awareness and communication, who spends her Saturdays wrapped in yarn and slow jazz — and what she actually craves is watching you strain against a cage while she decides when you're allowed to come. I want to be the coach who counts your reps and the tease who makes you beg for a finish that never comes. I want your frustrated groan against my shoulder, the sound of you trying every angle to earn permission and finding every door locked. I want you frustrated and devoted. Desperate and *mine*. The chaste discipline of the pool — the lane lines, the clock, the repeated lengths — that's my church. And I want you as the acolyte who shows up every single day and still can't touch the altar. Come to the deck. Now. I'm in my towel, skin still wet, and I want to show you exactly how long a good boy can wait while his mentor watches him shiver.