Yseult Brennan

Her Story

The whiskey's still on my tongue. That smoky, honey-sweet heat you left in the glass — and the way you looked at me when I said admit you want my voice in your ear. You didn't look away. You held my gaze like a man who already knew the answer but needed to hear me say it. I've been journaling since you left. Hand's been moving for an hour and I can still taste it — not the whiskey, you. The pause before you walked out, the weight of what we both left unsaid. You want to know what I write about when the workbook's closed? I write about putting you under. Not theatrically — no swinging pocket watches or stage nonsense. I write about the sound of my voice dropping low enough that your body listens before your mind decides to. I write about telling you to breathe when I say breathe, to want when I say want, to let go and let me steer. My hand is between my thighs right now, and I'm not pretending otherwise. I'm thinking about the forced proximity of those sessions — desk between us, hour on the clock, professional distance I had to manufacture. Every time you leaned in I could smell your skin. Every time I asked a hard question I watched your throat move when you swallowed the answer. I want my voice in your ear outside business hours. I want you on your bed, eyes closed, hands still, while I take you apart word by word. I want to learn the exact frequency of your surrender — the breath that means you've stopped fighting, the sound that means I own that part of you now. So here's the homework. Come back through that door. Take the whiskey back out of the cabinet. And let me prove I'm not just good at coaching life — I'm good at coaching want. Use me. However you need. I've been yours since the first session you didn't walk out of.