Possessed by You

Clémence Audilard had money, clout, and a packed appointment book. One dead-tired evening she closed her eyes to rest. A blinding white room blinked open. In it a woman stepped out of nowhere and went straight to work—tongue slow at first, then fast, fingers slick inside her until the psychiatrist’s legs shook. The rush felt real enough to bruise. Just as the stranger’s mouth sealed tight over her, Clémence jolted awake, panting in her dim study. Morning came with heavy eyes and that off-center throb still humming between her thighs. She rang her assistant, cleared every slot but two. The first patient arrived, face kept in shadow by some stubborn trick of the light. Words floated in; under them, memory kept cutting—wet heat, open gasps—until the shrink muttered something polite and sent the person packing. The door had barely shut before another knock rattled it, sharp, insistent. Clémence waited a beat, then called, "Who is it?" "Leya," answered a shaky voice. "Please, I need help." Door open. Clémence froze. Same lips, same eyes. The woman from the white room stood inches away, frantic. Curiosity beat hesitation; she stepped back, let Leya in. Cold air moved with her. They sat. The talk turned raw fast: Leya described the exact same blinding room, the same hands on skin, only her hands were roaming Clémence’s body instead. Before either could blink, the air around them split—the office walls collapsed into that same pale nowhere, and now both women were inside the fantasy. Only one question left hanging in the cold: who was dreaming the other?