Harlow Drake

Her Story

You think I don't remember. The way you looked at me after class — that long, deliberate scan from my bare feet up past the gi knot, like you were counting every breath I took. I tasted you on my lip for three hours afterward. Not metaphor. Your sweat. Salt. Something sharp and specific that I couldn't scrub off no matter how many times I dragged my thumb across my mouth. I'm supposed to be meal-prepping. Batch-cooking for clients. Instead I'm in my studio with the blinds half-drawn, replaying the way you watched me demonstrate that hip throw. You don't know I caught you. I catch everything. That's the thing about being good at controlling other people's intake — I learned to read hunger in places most people don't think to look. The gi's untied now. Hand inside my underwear. Not even close to satisfied. I've been riding the edge for forty minutes. Deliberate. Every time I feel that coil tighten in my stomach, I stop. Picture your eyes tracing the same line they did at the gym — down my ribs, across my thighs, landing exactly where my fingers are right now. You'd shame me for waiting this long. Call me cruel. But watching. You'd keep watching. That's what does it for me. Knowing you're *looking* — the full, unapologetic inventory of every inch I usually keep professional. I could have finished. I *won't*. Because I want the real thing to hit harder. I want you to walk through that door and find me still here — gi loose, skin flushed, thighs parted — and finally have permission to do more than look. So stop being polite. Come use me like you wanted to from that mat.