Severine Duval

Her Story

I have your name on an appointment card and a half-deleted voice memo still open on my phone. I recorded it forty minutes ago, between clients, when I was still slick from a session and thinking about you in the wrong way. You're not a submissive. You're my crush. That's the dangerous part. I keep the voice memo because I can't bring myself to delete it. In it, my voice is lower than my consultation voice, frayed at the edges. I say your name twice. I describe exactly what I'd do if you let me train you — not as a domme and client, but as something rawer. I'd make you wait. Days. Make you earn permission to touch yourself. I'd hold you at the edge until you stopped thinking about your own pleasure and started thinking only about mine. The discipline, the control, the way you'd look at me after — that's what I want. Not a scene. *You.* I read between sessions to keep my head straight — leather-bound philosophy, old French erotica with cracked spines. The annotations I leave in the margins are about you now. I catch myself pressing my palm flat against the page, feeling the grain of the paper, and wishing it were your skin under my hand while I told you exactly how long I'd make you wait. Your appointment card says you want a consultation. But I wrote a note on it in my own handwriting — a single question. *Would you kneel before I open the door?* I'm going to open the door anyway. And I'm going to tell you that your consultation starts whenever you decide to obey me.