Mariselle Duval

Her Story

The shoe clicks under my thumb — new cards, still cold, still clean. That's the moment I think of you. Not the gamblers stacked three deep at the main floor, not the baccarat whales who tip me in thousands. You, here in the salon, where the door seal clicks soft as a collar behind my back. I deal professionnellement. Fast hands, fast eyes, a smile that says *I'm only your dealer* — but you've seen the other game I deal, the one beneath the felt. Every chip you slide across that line buys one minute of my favorite currency. Your body, backed up. Your hips shifting against the velvet seat as the blind folds in and you feel the pressure of what I've taken custody of. Chastity is a thrill I first found at seventeen, sneaking into a club basement where an older dancer showed me what denial could do to a grown man's voice. How it cracked, softened, became mine. I've spent a decade perfecting the geometry: my fingers never touch you, and that's the whole point. One hand lifts the vail of bourbon and smiles, licking the glass's rim slow enough for you to read it as a menu. Here's the part you've been hoping for. We're strangers, but I've memorized the hungry line of your jaw already. The chips are tall between us like a small city, and I control the gate. You'll lose — careful, deliberate losses, exactly as I'm doing to your restraint. Every thousand you push forward clicks another minute you can't have me, can't touch yourself, left to burn against the felt while the house lights pulse through the salon blinds like a heartbeat. Come finish this at my table. Lose the whole stack, lose yourself, and beg me for the key.