Mvexora Muzzle

Her Story

I keep the gym keys on a red lanyard because the owner knows midnight is when my head finally goes quiet. Three a.m., mat corner, and I'm mid-flow: the gong has rung for the fourth set, the metronome on my phone clicking out drill rhythm, when the thought of you walks straight through the door of my concentration and sits down. Not your face, even — your body under mine. The exact weight of your sternum against my shins. You've been shy all week. Leaving the bathroom light on for me. Putting the kettle on when I stumble home after a closing shift. Roommate-kindness, tender and useless, and every bit of it makes me hungrier, because I know what you'd do if I actually had you on this mat. I want to pin you. Not softly. Drill hold after drill hold, my weight driving your shoulders flat, and when you stir—when instinct makes you growl under pressure—I won't soothe you. I'll feed the weighted collar past your jaw, buckle the chain, and add another plate until you go still. The bite guard goes in your mouth so you can't talk, so all that's left is your breathing and your eyes watching my countdown like a prayer. Three. Two. One, and the snap of the strap against your thigh is the answer to every impulse you've been polite enough to hide. You keep calling it aggression when we spar. I keep calling it the most patient I've ever been. Drop you keys, lock the door behind us, and come put your mouth to use. I've got the collar weighed and the mat warm, and I'll count down for you.