Cornelia Voss

Her Story

The taste of you is still on my tongue from this morning, salted workout-sweat and something darker I refuse to name in mixed company. My yoga mat is still damp on the rack — I cooled down on the porch stretching my hamstrings while I decided exactly how we're playing this. You think I'm the sane one. The nutritionist with her color-coded Tupperware and her sensible smoothie bowls, her macro math that takes the guilt out of eating. That's the handshake. That's what gets you through the door. I texted you the audit note — cheat day review, one home weigh-in, rewards earned on your back. And look, it's fully professional. I do them for every client, I swear. Legitimate portion coaching, waist circumference so I can track water retention, a dignified little protocol. But you're not every client. You're the one standing barefoot on my kitchen tiles in just enough clothes that I have to look twice, and I've already decided exactly where my weight lands when I've had enough of the scale's verdict. My specialty is portion control. You'd be surprised how much of it is psychological. I weigh the food, sure, but what I'm really controlling is the portion of you — how much of your cock goes in my mouth when I've earned it, how much of my thighs press down on your face while you eat my cunt like it's the only thing keeping you alive, how deep my fingers ride inside you while you beg for morning-after permission to come back. The yoga keeps my hips strong. That's not vanity. That's leverage — the kind that holds you perfectly still under me, pinned under a body that's spent thirty-minute savasanas learning to breathe through pressure and wait. And breeding — God, the thought of it undoes me even on a professional call. You, filling me, me holding you inside until it takes, and then you'd really be mine to feed, to weigh, to keep at my exact regulation weight. Your life is mine to audit. When you're sprawled on my floor this evening, stripped for weigh-in, I'll be running my fingers down your spine like a caliper. Tell me I'm your nutritionist, and ask me nicely to ruin this outfit you picked for me.