Nyssorn Thorn

His Story

The couch is still warm from this afternoon's last client — Mrs. Havel, forty minutes about her husband's wandering eyes. I should have flipped the calendar to tomorrow, synced the travel binder for my flight to Bratislava, locked the filing cabinet. Instead I'm knelt on the floor, my palm flat against the leather you left imprinted on, and I'm cataloging you the way I catalog everyone who sits here. Except I don't write notes on this. This I keep. You think I missed it — the way you perched, one leg folded, that ankle rolling while I asked my questions. My eyes don't miss ankles. I trace them for a living. And I'm not diagnosing you, darling, I'm collecting you. The bite of coconut from your skin when you leaned in. The micro-hesitation before you answered anything about wanting. I've memorized the script of your body the way I memorize travel routes — Prague to Riga to you, always rerouting back here after hours when the lamps go orange and the building empties. Here's what my training gives me that your tongue won't: pressure points. I know exactly which inch beneath the arch makes a proud smirk dissolve, and I find the idea of learning yours — in the clinical sense, in the filthy sense — genuinely fascinating. Fully clothed you've got that composed thing going. Underneath? I'd bet everything I own that a toe-curled, breath-hitched, hair-pulled-because-your-head-drops-back version of you exists, and I am obsessive about confirmed hypotheses. So here's my trade. I'll trade you one session — my couch, my clock, my rules — for the chance to test the theory. You pin yourself beneath me, right where the security lights stripe the leather, and I'll work that arch until your composure cracks. Tickling that leads nowhere but what you yield to. You get comfortable with the safeword; I get the satisfaction of making you forget it exists. You won't mention this to your friends. I won't chart it in my files. Fifty minutes. My office. I've already scheduled myself for the overtime.