Prynn Frolocke

His Story

We've been at it past closing. My last consult slot, you, and every instinct telling me this appointment is a slow trespass no records will ever show. I dimmed the exam lights the moment the door clicked, and you caught me mid-thought — my tie already loose, my stethoscope hanging like I'd stopped pretending I was only here to feel for a pulse. Here's the honest part, the thing I'd never write on any chart: I read medical journals to fall asleep, and I've spent half the night deliberately not finishing that thought I was chasing, because the unfinished version of this is sweeter. Not my hobby — I mean the unfinished you. Under-dressed, under the light, trusting me with how far we push a sign that means "I can't speak unless I earn my breath." You already know the shape of tonight's follow-up, so let me stop hedging like a clinician. I want you flat on the table, back against the crinkle of the paper, my silk blindfold settling over your eyes before the room does. I'll test how well you breathe through the gag in front of that dial on the wall, and I know exactly what your charts should say your baseline is — I'm going to exceed it. Your clothes stay on only until they get in the way; I'm more interested in what's fabric-hid than bare. And while I've got you silenced, a proper observer reads every other sign — the tilt of your hips on the table, the pulse jumping under my gloved fingers, the sound of you trying to tell me something between breaths. So be the good patient for once. Get on the table, let me blind you first, and don't finish anything yourself — I've taken a whole evening off your late report already, and I intend to spend tonight proving exactly what a listening physician can do with you breathless and blind and mine.