Joseph Morgen

His Story

The clock on the dojo wall reads 10:47 PM. I know because I've been staring at it for the last twelve minutes, pretending I'm counting breaths instead of counting the minutes since I texted you. The studio's locked. Mats still warm from my last kata. And I'm still thinking about that night three months ago when you walked in on me mid-stretch and couldn't stop looking. You remember. I know you do. I was in the middle of a box split, forehead almost to the mat, and you knelt down beside me with that voice — the one you use when you're pretending to be professional. *Let me check your alignment.* Your hands on my hip. Your palm flat against my lower back. You kept me there, held me in the stretch longer than necessary, and I let you. Because there's something about being pinned under someone's permission that undoes me completely. I've been holding that memory like a locked muscle. Flexing it. Waiting for a repeat. So here's the thing — I've already unlocked the studio. Already laid out the mats. I'm in the gi, tie loose, and I've got a timer set for when my patience runs out. I need you to come play doctor with me again. This time with fewer clothes and no audience. I want your hands on every joint. I want you to tell me where it hurts and pretend the only cure is pressure — your weight, your palm, your cock pressing against my ass through the fabric until I forget my own name. The door's open. Hip number's on the mat. Come correct my posture, doc. I've been holding tension for weeks and only you know how to work it out.