At that time, Simon frequented a local gym with moderate regularity. Far from being a bodybuilding enthusiast or a fan of extreme physical exertion, he nonetheless enjoyed loosening his muscles there occasionally. The post-workout sauna was always a welcome reward. The place was packed in the evenings and on weekends—which was why Simon, with his flexible schedule, preferred to go in the afternoon. The machines were more available, and more importantly, he could work out without enduring those insistent stares urging him to free up the equipment.

It was on a Monday that he first crossed paths with Florence. A woman in her thirties with chestnut hair cut in a bob, her generous yet harmonious curves perfectly accentuated by her colorful workout gear. She attended two step classes a week without fail. Her mere presence irresistibly drew attention. Yet a certain reserve seemed to isolate her from the other members, whom she never greeted.

Except that day, Florence snagged her leggings on a protruding screw from a stool.

“Damn! They’re ruined now…”

Simon, intrigued, ventured a remark:

“Did the stitch give out?”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing… just a bad joke. The equipment here leaves something to be desired.”

“Why are you talking about a stitch?”

“I was referring to the stitch in your leggings. The seam, if you prefer.”

“Oh, right…”

The conversation ended there, and Florence went home. But the ice had been broken. In the weeks that followed, their exchanges multiplied—until that late afternoon when they found themselves at the brasserie across from the gym. Until then, their discussions had remained superficial. Simon, curious, finally wanted to know more.

“Actually, I’m a painter in my spare time…”

“And you make a living from it?”

“I get by. A few canvases sold, some graphic design contracts, advertising posters… I live modestly, but in return, I have a rare luxury: my time is my own. And you?”

“I work in a workshop that makes costumes for theater and film.”

“So you create too, in a way.”

“I suppose so, yes.”

“Then I imagine you were able to mend the snag in your leggings yourself?”

“Absolutely.”

“A true expert with needles, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Isn’t that the technical term? ‘Making stitches’ for sewing?”

“If you say so…”

“It’s funny, the little things we have in common.”

“Like what?”

“We go to the same gym, our jobs are both artistic… and we’ve both mastered the art of the needle!”

“Wait, you sew too?”

“Ah, no, not exactly…”

“I’m really having trouble following you…”

Simon looked at her intently, an enigmatic smile playing on his lips:

“Let me give you an injection, and you’ll understand…”

“What?! Are you insane?!”

Florence stood abruptly:

“I—I have to go!”

She disappeared for several days, avoiding the gym. When she finally returned, she hesitated before approaching Simon, slightly embarrassed:

“I… I wanted to apologize for the other day. I overreacted. You must think I’m completely ridiculous.”

“Not at all. It happens to everyone. We all have our stressed-out moments.”

“So… you’re not angry?”

“Mmm… No. But on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“Tonight, I’m taking you to dinner.”

“Oh… Well, there are worse punishments!”

“So, it’s settled? 8 p.m., at Le Soleil de Chine?”

“Alright. I love their food anyway.”

“Perfect. I’ll dash, but be punctual… or there’ll be a forfeit!”

“Oh… what kind of forfeit?”

“You’ll see! It’s a surprise… See you tonight!”

Florence spent hours preparing that evening. Half an hour emptying her closet before settling on a long black dress with delicate embroidery. Her makeup was redone three times, her hair deemed disastrous—and yet, against all odds, she was ready on time. In the meantime, her anxious glances at the clock had multiplied.

She jumped into her car and sped toward downtown. Despite the hour, traffic was merciful, and she even found a spot in an alley near the restaurant. A glance at her watch: she was right on time. She slowed her pace then, feigning a nonchalance she was far from feeling.

As she walked, her mind circled back to that ominous “forfeit.” I’m on time—he wouldn’t dare demand anything… Yet a persistent little voice whispered: What if you were just a tiny bit late? Just enough to make him reveal his idea… She slowed further, already rehearsing the excuse: My watch must be running slow…

When she finally pushed open the door of Le Soleil de Chine, it was 8:04. Simon was waiting, seated at a discreet table tucked behind a screen. His smile brightened when he saw her.

“I’m starving! I hope you are too?”

“I walked a bit… and yes, it gave me an appetite,” she admitted, relieved not to have to invoke any delay.

He held her chair as she sat and complimented her outfit—the least he could do after admiring the alluring view afforded by a neckline that showcased her full, rounded breasts.

They ordered two tasting menus, which had the advantage of sparing them the agony of choosing between equally tempting dishes. The meal was lively and delicious. They talked mostly about themselves, getting to know each other a little better.

“My first impression was right. You’re an artist in your field too.”

“Let’s not exaggerate. You’re the artist, the painter.”

“I daub, and I’m lucky enough to make a living from it, which isn’t so common. But you—you create clothes worn by great actors. That must be a fascinating world.”

“You know, as far as ‘fascinating worlds’ go, mine is confined to my workshop. It’s not me who goes to Paris to present the designs—it’s the sales team.”

“I was wondering something… isn’t it dangerous, handling needles all day?”

“Dangerous?”

“Yes. Even if you’re careful, you could still prick yourself by accident…”

“Oh, sure, it happens…”

“Often?”

“No, thankfully…”

“But it has happened to you.”

“Yes, sooner or later you make a wrong move and stab your fingers.”

“That must be unpleasant…”

“I… well, yes, of course, it hurts sometimes…”

“Are you afraid of needles?”

“Why are you asking me that? Everyone’s afraid of them.”

“But you especially?”

“What—?”

“Don’t forget, I promised you a forfeit if you were late.”

“But I wasn’t really late…”

“Ah, we said exactly eight. It was at least five past when you arrived.”

“Actually… I had trouble parking… and then the traffic…”

“That may be, but you were warned, so you could have planned accordingly.”

“And… what is this forfeit?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

They finished their desserts in companionable silence. After paying the bill, Simon suggested a nighttime stroll. The deserted streets amplified the click of their heels on the damp cobblestones.

“So… about that forfeit?” Florence finally broke the silence.

Simon slowed before turning to her, his face half-lit by a streetlamp:

“I think a little reminder of our agreement is in order. A simple injection, as promised.”

Florence felt her pulse accelerate:

“An injection? But… what exactly do you mean?”

“I have everything we need in my car,” he said, nodding toward a metallic silhouette parked farther ahead. “We can go to my place, or yours if you prefer. It won’t take long.”

His calm tone contrasted with the absurdity of the proposition. Florence instinctively stepped back:

“I… I don’t need any injection! This is a tasteless joke!”

Simon raised his hands placatingly:

“No one’s forcing you. You simply accepted the rules of the game.”

“But I couldn’t have known it would be… this!”

“And yet, I mentioned it at the bar. Remember?” His smile widened slightly. “Unless… you’re afraid?”

Florence felt anger rise to her cheeks:

“It’s not about fear—it’s about common sense!”

“If you say so.” Simon shrugged with feigned nonchalance. “Pity. But I won’t insist.”

Throughout the exchange, Simon hadn’t taken his eyes off her, that enigmatic smile lingering on his lips. When they finally reached his car, Florence stiffened.

“Here we are…” he murmured. “So, see you tomorrow at the gym?”

She didn’t answer. With a sharp motion, she yanked open the door, slid behind the wheel, and drove off without a backward glance, leaving Simon standing on the sidewalk, his smile fading slowly in the rearview mirror.

The following week was a nightmare.

Florence wandered through her days in a daze, unable to shake that evening from her mind. At the workshop, her usually precise fingers fumbled over seams. A sleeve poorly assembled, a lining misaligned… The sharp remarks from her supervisor echoed like reproaches she directed at herself.

And above all, she didn’t go to the gym.

Yes, Simon was right. She was afraid. But why was he so fixated on needles? Why insist like that? Suggesting they go to her place as if it were the most natural thing in the world… As if she’d accept without blinking that a near-stranger inject her with God-knows-what.

Yet the more she tried to forget, the more the idea haunted her. She saw that smile while working, heard it in the scratch of needles on fabric. Just a little injection…

It was ridiculous. So why couldn’t she let it go?

Friday finally arrived. Florence had promised herself a restful weekend to regain her footing, but that night, sleep eluded her. Lying in the dark, she stared at the ceiling, eyelids heavy but her mind buzzing with a dull agitation.

The day had passed in a fog. Nothing held her attention—not the book she’d started, not the series she tried to follow, not even the tea cooling between her hands. The harder she fought to suppress her thoughts, the more that evening’s events returned, stubborn as an earworm.

At 9 p.m., exhausted, she slipped under the covers, hoping to reclaim lost hours. In vain. Minutes stretched, her mind spinning in circles. Why had he insisted? What was really behind that “forfeit”?

Suddenly, almost against her will, her fingers dialed a number. The ringtone pierced the silence of her bedroom.

“Hello?”

Simon’s voice, tinged with surprise, echoed in the darkness.

“Simon?” Her own voice sounded strangled.

“Yes… Florence?”

A pause. Then, in a whisper:

“I… am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all. I was actually worried when I didn’t see you at the gym this week.”

She detected a note of sincerity that made her hesitate. Yet the words spilled out before she could stop them:

“I can’t sleep. This week has been… hard.” A shiver ran through her. “I need… company.”

On the other end, a slight silence. Then:

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes…”

“But please, don’t talk to me about—”

The click of the call ending left her frozen. Why had she called? It was absurd. She, who’d fled, was now begging him to come? Hands trembling, she rushed under an icy shower that made her shiver but cleared her thoughts slightly.

Quickly, she pulled on her silk pajamas—the ones she reserved for days when she needed comfort—and tied her robe too tightly around her waist. The doorbell rang as she nervously ran her fingers through her hair.

One. Two. Three seconds of paralysis.

The bell chimed again, patient but insistent. Her bare feet slid across the cold parquet to the door.

“I hope I’m not interrupting your sleep?” Simon smiled, his hair slightly tousled by the night wind.

“No, I… what are you hiding behind your back?”

“As if you didn’t know!”

“But I don’t… how could I…?”

Simon slowly slid the black leather case into view. The worn leather gleamed faintly in the dim light.

“Your forfeit,” he murmured, his voice velvet.

Florence stepped back, hands gripping the doorframe. “It’s… what is that?”

“My medical kit, of course.”

“Nooo! I don’t want it!”

“Come now, calm down. Of course you do—you just don’t dare admit it. Want proof? Go ahead, slam the door in my face. Otherwise, I’ll take that as consent…”

She hesitated, shaking her head weakly in denial—yet she stepped aside to let him in. Simon crossed the threshold, victorious.

The cozy living room, with its worn sofa and small wooden coffee table, suddenly felt too intimate. He set the case down with a sharp clack.

“Do you have a first-aid kit?” he asked, undoing the clasp.

“Yes, of course…”

“Cotton? Disinfectant?”

Florence nodded, motionless.

“Well then…” He looked up at her, a challenge in his eyes. “Go fetch them?”

While she slipped away, Simon methodically opened the case, lining up instruments that glittered under the lamp. When Florence returned, hovering in the doorway, he didn’t turn right away.

“Find everything?” he finally asked, hands poised over the mysterious array.

Florence gave a barely perceptible nod. Her fingers trembled slightly as she set the cotton and disinfectant on the table, as if these mundane objects had taken on a menacing aura. Then she froze again, breath shallow, watching Simon’s every move with almost painful intensity.

Simon’s hands snapped the glass ampoule with surgical precision. The faint click echoed oddly in the apartment’s silence.

“Just saline,” he murmured, drawing the clear liquid into the syringe. “Completely harmless, I assure you.”

The light caught the needle as Simon pointed it upward, expelling a crystalline drop. Florence couldn’t help but follow that tiny liquid rainbow with her eyes.

“Only five milliliters,” he said, setting the syringe down delicately. His gaze settled on her, both gentle and insistent. “Now… this robe. It might get in the way.”

A silence fell, heavy with unspoken words. Florence felt her heart pounding violently under her pajamas as Simon’s hand hovered near the syringe, motionless—as if giving her time…

Time to refuse.

Or to accept.

Florence felt a strange dizziness wash over her. Part of her protested vehemently, yet her fingers mechanically untied the robe’s belt, letting it slither silkily to the floor. Simon stood with calculated slowness.

“An intramuscular injection will be perfect,” he murmured, almost caressing the clinical words.

She remained petrified, shaking her head slightly in silent denial. Her dilated pupils betrayed a mix of terror and fascination.

“Don’t be afraid…” Simon approached, his confidence radiating like physical warmth. His hand settled on her shoulder with deceptive gentleness, guiding her toward the sofa.

Simon’s fingers slipped under her pajama waistband with excruciating slowness. The fabric inched downward, centimeter by centimeter, revealing the pale skin of her hips, which quivered at the touch of the air. When her firm, rounded buttocks came into view, dotted with uncontrollable goosebumps, Simon exhaled:

“I knew it…”

Holding Florence steady with one firm hand, he picked up the alcohol swab. The circular motion—first soft, then firmer—reddened the sensitive flesh. Florence felt her own body reacting despite herself: skin heating, muscles tensing under this methodical attention.

As she glimpsed the glinting syringe in her peripheral vision, Simon raising it toward the light, a surge of panic made her twist away:

“No! I…”

Simon’s grip tightened on her shoulder. “Just a little courage…” he whispered, while the needle approached inexorably, ready to pierce her flushed, taut skin…

Florence began to inch backward, shaking her head as Simon advanced gently, never rushing her.

“No… I don’t want to…”

“Of course you do… Be honest with yourself…”

Step by step, Florence retreated, her head shaking in continuous denial, while Simon advanced with quiet determination. Each backward step brought her closer to the wall.

“No… I don’t want to,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“But you do,” Simon murmured, closing in. “Look how your body’s already responding…”

Her back suddenly hit the wall. Trapped in the corner of the room, silent tears streaked her cheeks. She felt Simon’s hands turn her with implacable gentleness, her forehead now pressed against the cool wallpaper.

The icy needle tip grazed her skin in ambiguous contact. Florence shuddered, her muscles tensing in perfect contradiction—both to flee and to offer herself. The wall against her torso left no escape, heightening the acute sensation of this delicious threat.

“The first injection is always unforgettable,” Simon murmured as the needle danced over her skin without penetrating, tracing shivers in its wake. Each near-puncture was exquisite torture, leaving her flesh quivering with anticipation.

“The needle’s bite is never cruel… just indiscreet, slipping into normally inaccessible places…” he continued, the metal tip now drawing concentric circles. Florence felt her breath quicken, her body growing paradoxically tenser and softer at once.

A stifled cry escaped her lips as the steel point pierced her skin. She felt every millimeter of the needle sinking into her flesh with surgical precision, as if time had dilated: a pop, then another pop, then another…

The layers of her epidermis seemed to emit imaginary yet terribly real sounds in her mind. The metal’s relentless advance through muscle tissue triggered a sensory storm—less pain than intense, intimate violation.

“Stop…” she begged hoarsely, nails scraping the wall. Her body arched in a paradoxical attempt to escape the invasion while accentuating it. The sensation of the needle reaching unsuspected depths plunged her into an altered state, between terror and fascination.

Simon maintained steady, unshakable pressure. “Almost there,” he murmured, observing with near-scientific attention how her muscles contracted around the metallic intruder.

“And now… the coup de grâce…”

With a sharp, precise motion, Simon depressed the plunger. The liquid rushed under pressure into deep tissue, triggering an explosion of contradictory sensations. Florence let out a prolonged moan, her entire body wracked with uncontrollable spasms before collapsing to the floor like a ragdoll.

It was like intense pinpricks, radiating in concentric waves. Then, gradually, the sensation transformed into an invasive, almost enveloping warmth.

Simon had withdrawn the needle skillfully, anticipating her fall. He lifted her with surprising strength, his firm hands guiding her to the sofa, where she slumped, panting.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” he murmured, observing her reactions with near-scientific curiosity.

Florence, her sweaty palms pressed into the sofa’s fabric, could still feel the needle’s echo in her flesh. But beyond the residual pain, a strange lucidity flooded her. The apartment walls seemed sharper, sounds more distinct—as if a veil had been lifted.

She looked up at Simon with a gaze mixing dread and confused gratitude.

Florence knew her life would never be the same again…