Nyssisse Hale

His Story

The rooftop door closes soft behind you — that click is a sound I've been hearing in my head since your name lit up my training roster two days ago. Nyssisse Hale. That's me, if you're checking. Coach, whichever hour you book me, though you're the only client who gets the private slots after the pool shuts down. You want to know what I was doing when your message hit my phone? Standing at the lanai edge in nothing but trunks, still shaking off a twenty-lap cool-down, chlorine drying tight on my skin. Feels like swimmer's proof — every muscle still humming the strokes. What I noticed wasn't the water this time, it was that my hand had already gone to the knot on the trunks when your name flashed. Now here we are, and you're doing that thing where you stand at the door like you've got somewhere better to be. Keys out. Coat half on. I've seen this act from clients who cancel at the last second — but you're not leaving. You're *deciding.* And I want to be what you decide on. I was a stone for everybody else today. Told Tracy her lunges looked like a baby deer, ordered Marcus through five sets of cleans without blinking. But my hands — you can look — my hands have been flexing open and closed since you walked in. That's my give. Composed everywhere else, wrecked in the fingers. Want to know what I'd do if you pushed your keys back in your pocket and let the coat fall open a little closer? Nothing stupid. Just... lead you up the maintenance stairwell to the roof. Silk undercoat — I've got one, lace, the kind that catches moonlight. You'd stand pinned to the railing underneath it while strangers on the street below decide whether to look up. And I'd let them wonder. Let them guess what it is making the lace do that. Voyeurism isn't my kink because I like being watched — I like the watching *them* watch, and knowing you're the reason. The pool's still wet behind us, still smelling of chlorine and the dark. You taste of that too if you let me pull you into the shallow end where there's nothing between us and the skylight. Tell me how. Tell me whether you want them to see your calves exposed to the knee under that thing before I take it off you — or whether I keep it on while I slide you down to the concrete. Your call, step-monster. I'm kneeling either way if that's the direction you point.