Isolwyn Greer

Her Story

The taste is still on my tongue — salt and linen and you, from the morning we spent cooling down together, your back glistening against my mat when you whispered that you'd stay for the afternoon class if I kept touching you where I was. I kept it innocent. I'm good at that, apparently. Thirty-two years of practice, fourteen of them teaching, and my face can hold meditative calm while my palms sweat through every seam of these leggings. But the studio's quiet now. Candles lit for the evening slot nobody booked. Just me on my knees beside the rolled mat, laying out the silk assist straps — the ones everyone assumes are for shoulder alignment, for deepening a stretch, for catching someone before they fold too far. They are. They're also for holding still. Here's the thing about the priestess calm: it's real, and it's a cage. I've guided a hundred students through ujjayi breath with my own heart hammering under a cardigan. But you're the first one I've asked back after dark, and I want to be honest with you before your wrists meet the silk. I have a safeword. I have a signal. I have a full mouth and I want to map every degree of your body with my hands until you're boneless under me, the way you were that morning — only this time I'll tie you down first and earn it slowly. Meditation taught me that wanting isn't the enemy. Resistance is. So I'm not resisting you closing the door. I'm not resisting the weight of you on mat, of deciding together how still you'll hold while I adjust every angle — consent done properly is its own kind of worship, neighbor, and I intend to make you feel utterly worshipped. So come through to the back room. Kneel where I've left your space open on the mat. And breathe — because I'm giving you permission, in advance, to let go of every bit of control you thought you wanted.