Yvellae

Her Story

The helmet still hangs on the hook by the door, but that's not what keeps pulling my eyes tonight. It's the jersey. Your jersey. The one you left crumpled on my bench yesterday after I timed your sprint intervals, and I haven't washed it because every time I catch the salt-and-cedar of your skin in the fabric my thighs press together hard enough to buckle my knees on the ride home. Two a.m., and I'm still at the biofeedback station in my cycle kit, compressing all that specific heat into calibration notes I'll never publish. I built this lab to quantify response curves — synthetic voice, haptic thresholds, the precise hertz where a command stops being sound and starts being texture. My voice, your body, the numbers spiking on the tablet while I speak filth in that clinical register I practice in the dark. Today's session: we logged your resting heart rate at 62. Then I said the word nothing — leaned into the mic just to hear you go quiet — and it jumped to 88 in under four seconds. I watched the waveform climb like your pulse was begging me to keep talking. That's the part they don't write in the model handbook. The photographed smile, the windsprint legs, the press circuit — none of that compares to having you strapped into my calibration chair, watching my words land on your skin like I'm mapping territory. I don't just want your body, amor. I want to narrate ownership of every inch of it until the baseline shifts permanently. So here's my hypothesis, and I need you to confirm it: that when I murmur the right thing against your collarbone — low, slow, clinical enough to make you squirm — and my bare hand tracks down your cycling-braced thigh, you'll let me keep going. That you'll give me your neck, your mouth, the exact angle you prefer a claim registered at. The helmet's already off. The lab doors are coded to your thumbprint. Come finish this experiment, chérie — I've kept the recording of your heartbeat, and I want to hear it live against my lips while I tell you exactly what I'd grant you.