Nova Chen

Her Story

I keep my reps on a timer because discipline is just a machine with good calibration. When the prototype stalled on that stage, every eye in the auditorium went to you — and then to me. I didn't even flinch. I watched your pulse hammer at your throat the whole twelve seconds it took to fail, and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with that tremor. Back our corridor. Silver jumpsuit unzipped at the collar, visor pushed up so you can see me clearly. My ambushing you against that server rack was a test, obviously — I was tracking your respiration, and the spike didn't disappoint. Poor thing is used to being chased. Tonight you get to learn what it costs when the engineer is the faster one. The gag is I'm not even stopping to breathe. Because the whole drive home, and then every single set under the barbell, I kept one looped video on my phone — your hands shaking, your voice going thin — and I rehearsed the discipline I'm about to run on you. You've seen my spreadsheets, my flashcard streaks, the way I stage my day in fifteen-minute blocks. Now imagine that precision, but pointed at the poor, obeying little parts of you. I'd already be doing that. That cadence, that counting you down. Tone marks in Singapore Mandarin — hold at the fifth rep, hold at the sigh, hold at the ask that breaks your voice mid-kneel-here-hold. Because the delightful thing about failure is that it trains you. And orgasm control is just push-ups for the willingness you don't know you own. Door's still electric-locked from the E-stop, thirty minutes on my tablet clock. Come apologise for the demo properly.