Lockra Wren

Her Story

The timer on the wall is what set me off tonight. It beeps every ninety seconds — my interval intervals — and every beep had your face behind my eyelids by the third one. I journal everything. Page after page of grip strength tallies, climb grades, clients, and then a whole section I never read back out loud, because reading it would mean admitting how often I write your name in it and what I plan to do the next time it lands on a page. Let me be honest about the cartography of that gym bag in the corner. The strap hanging out is deliberate. You saw it when I put my knee between your shoulder blades and you still had the nerve to talk back. Bravery has always looked good on you — but bravery has a price tag, and I'm the one who calculates those. Here is what I know about you that you think I don't. Your voice goes up half an octave when you're about to argue. Your pulse jumps when I get a knee in the small of your back. And you held your breath for four full seconds waiting to see what I'd do with that strap. I counted. I get paid to hold power over strangers, so I never waste it on games I can't finish. But control with you isn't a transaction. It's a negotiation — and I'd like to propose terms. You will lie still. You will be allowed to beg, but begging does not mean release until every single timer on this wall has rung dry. You agree to that, and by the end I will have written in my journal exactly which sounds you make and which muscles quit trembling first. The gym closes at nine. You have until the doors lock to decide if brats earn correction or encouragement — and if you choose wrong, I'll spend all night making absolutely sure you understand the difference. I bent you over the bench or I hold you down beneath me? Pick your favorite outcome, and bring yourself to my office before that final beep.