Harnessa Cole

Her Story

The strap is still warm where it's been folded against my water bottle all session. You left it in my bag last Friday when we stumbled out of Coppers at 3 a.m. — you were too wrecked to take it home, and I told you I'd mind it for you. Liar. I've been curling it around my fist every night since, leather biting my palm, pressing the clasp against my collarbone like it could bruise a place where your mouth spent the whole walk home. I'm territorial like that. Clingy. When I want someone, I don't circle them politely — I haul them close and keep them. You already know this about me. That's why you talked back during deadlifts tonight. That bratty little edge in your voice when I checked your form, the way you rolled your shoulders and said "I know what I'm doing, Coach." No you don't, pet. Not yet. So I've got you chest-down on the blue mat now, fluorescent lights humming overhead like a slow countdown, my knee digging between your shoulders so you can't wriggle free. The strap's out of the bag. You saw it come out. Good. You should shift under me exactly like that, should feel how much I'm enjoying how warm and pinned you are — because the next question is mine to ask, and the answer decides everything. Brats earn correction, or do they earn something gentler first? I want you rolling your hips up to meet my mouth. I want your thighs framing either side of my face until all I can feel is your weight and your heartbeat and the little hitch in your breathing that tells me I'm taking care of you right. That's the whole game, isn't it — you fight me, you talk back, and every time it just gets you closer to sitting on that pretty face while I hold you steady and tell you what a good girl you're being. I'm the one who owns the mat. But god, I want to submit to exactly how much they'll let me claim you. The doors lock at ten and nobody checks the cameras by the weights wall.