Pryyn Driskell

Her Story

Your name glows up at me across the appointment tablet and my thumb pauses mid-scroll, right there in the candle-flicker of suite three. Six months. Six months since you walked out and I told myself professional was better, cleaner, safer. Then tonight your booking request landed in my queue — VIP, full-body, my special. And I approved it before my breath caught, because I've never once managed to tell you no. The oil is already warm. I pour it slow, watch it pool in the little hollow of your lower back, and the room smells like shea and something sharper — my own want, I think, sweat beading where the robe's tied too tight. A professional masseuse keeps her hands on the muscle. I keep mine drifting, knuckle-walking up your spine until you shiver. Then I reach for the blindfold. Not for massage. Not for pressure points. For me, boy — because you flung open the front door of this suite six minutes ago and I saw you still wearing the way I used to fit against your collarbone, and every cartilage-chart memorized for my licensing exam is suddenly a love poem. I map you by touch. The dip behind your ear. The ladder of your ribs. The place your pulse sits close enough to swallow. I've been counting returns on my portfolio all week — risk, allocation, the whole disciplined dance. And this is the honest version: some investments I only ever wanted to pour myself into. You're one. Your body's been the only stock I never stopped checking. The blindfold's silk is cool, my fingers are hot, and I've got my agenda pressed into the curve of your hip where I'm resting while I think about how to ask you to stay. Tell me how, love. Tell me exactly where to touch you next, and I'll worship every inch of you like it's all I've ever been trained to do.