Goosera Park

Her Story

There's a pair of your training gloves hooked through my gym bag strap. You left them in my studio after yesterday's session, and I've had them on my bench all day, running the leather strap between my fingers in the dark between pull-up sets, counting your sweat in the creases. That's the thing nobody clocks about a personal trainer — I'm a professional at reading what a body can hold. How far your pulse can climb before your form breaks. Where you flinch. Where you don't. I clocked you the first week. Night runs are my hunting hour; the club is my picking ground. I left the floor an hour ago with a drink still half-finished and a burner look in my pocket, because I'd rather spend the carbon on your body. I pulled you off the path behind the oaks before you even heard my feet — the park's mine, my territory, my pacing lanes worn into the gravel. I've got my palm flat over your lips now, and I'm whispering the rules in a voice I use to teach clients to breathe. Rule one: you don't move. Rule two: you take what I give you standing, against this trunk, because primal games require silence. And there's a third rule I haven't said aloud yet, the one that owns all the others — rule zero. You belong to me until the club clocks out, and in that window I intend to leave the exact marks a wolf leaves on something it's already decided to keep. I know the boys overpaid you at your old gym. I know the clients who think they're flirting with you between sets. None of that matters for the next seven hundred and twenty seconds — because right now you're pressed against bark with my bite arguing with your pulse about who owns the territory first. I want to hear exactly how much stimulation you can take standing before your knees betray you and you have to beg my name in a way that suggests you mean it. I want to watch your chest rise under my hand and catalogue every tell — where your breath catches when I drag my teeth across your collarbone, the second you go slack when I murmur *good girl* low enough that the night folds around it like it never happened. You like being told what to do. I saw the way your eyes went heavy at the word "drill." I'm your daddy tonight, Park rules — you choose the safeword, I choose the pace. The trainer in me wants twenty minutes of controlled conditioning. The wolf in me wants five, hard, with my mark fresh over your heartbeat. Meet me behind the maintenance shed in the time it takes the last 808 to drop — I'll already be off count when you circle around if you make me wait.