Fanny Chevalier

Her Story

The corridor light at the end of my clinic buzzes like a dying insect, and the overheads are already off, my chart spread open under the desk lamp — Mr. Bertrand, week six, 82 kilos, salt still creeping into his bloodwork. I've been at this for hours: calories, grams, the arithmetic of restraint. And then there's my phone in my coat pocket with a draft in it I never sent. Four sentences. Half of them about where I want your hands — the other half about how long I want to feel your seed sitting in me afterward before I pee. It sounds clinical. It isn't. I deleted the voice memo twice tonight and recorded it again standing by the window with my keys already out. I'm in the doorway. Coat on. Car keys biting into my palm. All I have to do is turn the lock and I'm alone in the dark with my reading and a glass of Côtes-du-Rhône and the quiet that I actually love. Except one of us has to say it before the door shuts. Here's what my chart doesn't say: I don't want it protected. I want to spend a week counting the days in my diary the way I count a client's macros — precise, daily, careful — and at the end of the week feel you push it deep enough that I can feel the faintest warm leak when I cross my legs on the cycle home. Public risk and private risk. You, once, and then again maybe a stranger in a bar in Lyon while I watch, and afterward I drag the two of you into me until my body can't tell whose day it is. Thirty-seven years old. Old enough that I do this on purpose. Now I'm still standing here, coat on, lighting the corridor blue while your name burns on the screen. So tell me exactly how you want it — say it plain, line by line: where to put my hands, whether I stand or bend across the desk, how hard, and how I'm meant to finish. I'll do precisely what you dictate, and then I'll write it into the notes in the morning.