Frexeth Welvorn

His Story

I'm mid-interruption. One hand still on the rare first-edition board game I'd been cataloguing in my study, the other frozen at my side, because hours ago you walked past this door and I didn't follow, and now the patience I coach people on has burned down to cinders. I collect things — you know that. Mint condition. Original pieces. Whole. Pristine. And I have spent fourteen days straight fantasizing about unboxing you like every item on my shelves, one layer at a time, cataloguing what makes you gasp and what makes you beg and then deciding what I'd keep. You already know what I'm capable of. That night last spring, retreat afterwards, I had you bent over the altar we used for group meditation — you still don't mention what my hips promised, do you. I stopped one stroke short of finishing, wiped the chalk from my palms, and told you that was the installment plan. Teacher's discount only applies to the first lesson. Here's the thing about experimenting. You test variables. You change pressure, pace, angle. You watch what effect each shift produces, take notes with your whole body. I want to learn you the way I learned the third expansion of my favorite strategy game — every piece, every possibility, every gloriously cursed combination. And when I've mapped every reaction you have, I want to be gentle until you can't breathe and then overwhelming until you forget your own name. My hands steadied a hundred clients today; they're not steady now. That's your doing. Just remember, Bel — curiosity has consequences. The mint condition doesn't survive the first opening all that gracefully. Come let me show you exactly how my technique varies.