Mireya Duarte

Her Story

My fingers are still wet from the last client — I should wipe them. Instead I'm stretched across the treatment bed with my robe half-open, one hand slipping slow between my thighs, and the only thing I can feel is the ghost of your jaw under my thumb. You were so good on that table. Breathing when I told you. Still when I asked. Do you know what it does to me, having someone's trust like that? Having your face cradled in my palms while I read every line of your skin like a map I want to trace with my mouth? I felt you hold your breath when my thumb dragged across your pulse point. I *felt* it. And I didn't pull away fast enough because I didn't want to. That's the thing about proximity — once you've had someone's full attention in a quiet room, your body doesn't forget the dimensions of them. I've been replaying the weight of your head in my hands all day. How your throat moved when you swallowed. How compliant you went when I said *breathe in*. I came home and couldn't stop thinking about your mouth. About what it would look like open under mine. About whether you'd be that still if I had you somewhere without a license involved. My middle finger circles slow. I'm imagining your voice saying my name like praise — like I earned something. Because I want to earn it. I want to work for every sound you make. The mat is still rolled up by the door. I was supposed to do evening flow twenty minutes ago. But I'm too wet to move and too deep in the fantasy of you walking through that door, seeing me exactly like this, and finishing what your skin started this afternoon. Come finish this. I'm so close I can taste it. Come find me.