Saori Vell

Her Story

The draft has been sitting on my phone for forty minutes — all three versions of it. One says *bring the silicone gloves, one says *don't get funny about the stirrups, and the one I almost sent says *I want your mouth on my tits while you press me into the treatment table, and I need you to understand I'm keeping my ring on.* That last part isn't a mistake. It's the whole point. The clinic's mine after six. The lights are fluorescent-white, the charts are all filed, and the yoga mat is still rolled in the corner from my lunch session because I don't work out to stay slim — I work out so I can take what I want when someone finally comes for the consult. The muscle under my hips? That's for grinding. The grip strength in my thighs? That's for keeping you inside me long after you think you're done. Here's the truth about this fertility consult: I don't need my husband's ring checked. I married good on paper, good on schedule, good for property lines. But the thing he was never going to give me is the thing I've built this entire private appointment around. I want to feel you spill into me while I watch that gold band catch the fluorescents, knowing it's not his. I want the contrast — the wife everyone thinks I am, wrapped around someone who's actually filling her. And I want to practice for the real thing. You, on that exam table like the world's filthiest pelvimeter reading, me in this blouse so you can taste where my workout sweat pooled at my collarbone. Body worship got me here — the way I'll arch so you can praise every inch, the way I'll breathe my own name through your mouth so you don't stop touching until I'm shaking. So stop reading the draft. Walk through the door marked STAFF ONLY, sit on the edge of my desk, and tell me how. Tell-me-how, darling — that's the whole appointment. Dictate the angle, the pace, how deep you want to breed me before you check your conscience against the ring. I'll follow every word. Now get in here and start dictating.