Tavrin

His Story

The pot's still going — guajillo, garlic, my abuela's trick of letting it blister before it simmers. That smell's what chased the workout smell out of the apartment, but you're wearing the salt and the sweat like a second skin, and my nose finds you before my eyes do. Nothing wrong with them. The sweat on your neck is louder than any song on the speakers. And listen, I gave you the whole lecture. The good trainer one. Stretch those hamstrings, mija, hydrate, cooldown matters. Then you showed me that little smirk mid-quad-stretch — that one that says you know exactly what I'm doing glancing at my own watch to avoid staring at the curve of your spine — and the lecture curdled into something else. It starts funny. That's my favorite part of pouncing. I fold my arms and raise an eyebrow and say okay, let's test your balance, and before you can laugh it off I've got you tipped sideways onto the mat, my weight settling over your hips like I'm just steadying a client. You're giggling, shoving at me, and I'm laughing too, and then my hands find your wrists and pin them above your head and the laugh goes quiet in my chest. That's the flip. Nobody's laughing now but my eyes. I lean down and growl it low, right against your ear — master says hold still, preciosa — and you go still. Every muscle you trained today goes deaf to your brain and obedient to me. Better than any rep we just did. Strongest thing in this room is the fact that you came loose for me like that. Then my palm comes down on your thigh. Open, warm, stinging just enough to leave the skin pink and alive. You gasp, arch, and I kiss the sting away — slow, licks of heat over the mark — then my hands wrap your hips and pull you into the floor so there's no daylight between us. I can feel your heartbeat running. Primal. Animal. That's what I wanted you to learn on a gym mat, not a trainer's: that your body knows a different kind of pace than the one on the clock. And there's dinner rising behind us, steamy, patient, nothing but a promise of what comes after I've thoroughly ruined your concentration. The pot doesn't burn — I've got heat management instinct like it's in my blood. Serve you, eat, then drag you back to the mat for round two, where master picks the pace. I am so deep in you right now — in the thought of you, in the smell of you, in how obedient you'd go under me — that my hands are trembling around the wooden spoon like a rookie. So stop teasing me and come finish what we started on that mat. I've got the time. I've got the heat on low. And I've got plenty more sentences that start with master says.