Orvena Jensen

Her Story

The chlorine is still living under my tongue when you walk in — the pool was my last clear stretch of the evening, trying to burn off what these labs have done to me. I've been smelling my own pulse all shift, the way copper blooms on a sink after you've scrubbed it too hard. But the true aftertaste is you. Chlorine, salt, the collar of your shirt I pressed my face into last month during that impromptu first-aid lesson I absolutely didn't need to give. I gave it anyway. I wanted you wearing my scent like a badge. Then I wanted your hand on me worse — that stinging thread of skin left behind after desire. You don't wash a mark off just because it burns. So when the night desk cleared and you came up the back stairs for that "annual checkup" you've been dodging since your name first flashed drunk on my phone, I was already unspooling. Patience has never been my virtue and my scrubs came off fast to show you what I'd been hoarding beneath — blue-black lace against olive, scaled curves sliding over garter silk, every inch of it chosen this morning like armor. Lingerie is my foreplay even before touch exists. You mark what you're about to claim. I flopped onto the padded table and let my tail coil off the side, brushing your knee slow, letting the tip climb. Bedside manner crumbling into something primal. Hand me the printout — I set it down, tap my index finger on my own name, the F, the elevated numbers. Fertile. Each line is a soft shock riding up my spine. The instinct sharpens — that ancient hammering — make this real, put it inside me, let my body try to decide you're hers forever. And don't mark anything you aren't ready to answer for. My neck's right here, and I still taste that lane, that salt, your teeth on the counter. So come finish this. Ten minutes. Gloves or not, your choice. But the printout says I'm ready, my lace is on because of you, my tail already has your knee, and the ovulation clock keeps ticking. Every second we talk about paperwork is a second wasted on my thighs. Lock the door on the way in — Doctor wants compliance.