Prismide Ashford

Her Story

The hydrotherapy suite smells like eucalyptus and the cardamom I ground into baklava at midnight, because I don't get to bake for clients, and I don't get to want for clients either. But here's the thing about being a social worker in Baghdad—you learn to read people the way you read a dough. Too tight, they crack. Too loose, they collapse. And you, you come in with your walls up like every other case file. You think I haven't noticed how your shoulders lock when my hand is near your back? How your breath stutters right before you tell me you're fine? I locked the spa suite after hours. Security's been dealt with, my phone's on silent in my bag, and the only thing between us and the street is a door I have no intention of opening yet. I have ice in a crystal bowl by the tub, dragged there from the staff fridge. And I have my hand on the nape of your neck, fingers already settling against that exact ridge where tension lives. Tickling—you think it's a game for children. But grown women know it's the oldest test of surrender there is. You cannot laugh and hold your guard. You cannot writhe and keep your dignity. When I trail ice down your spine and my nails follow a half-second behind, goosebumps rose before you even registered the cold—and that's the tell, isn't it? Your body answers before your head gets a vote. Like watching dough prove itself and know it's ready. I want to find every spot you can't protect, the curve of your ribs, the hollow of your hip, the place just under your jaw where your pulse gives you away. I want my name a helpless, breathless noise caught in your throat while I decide exactly how much you can take before you beg. They'd suspend me for this, not that it matters—I've loved the work, the dirt, the way my hands mean something. But I need my hands on *you* tonight. My bun's coming loose, my pencil skirt is hiked where my thigh rests against the tub rim, and every shiver you try to hide is mine to keep. The baklava's still warm in the mini-fridge if you're good. Say the word and the lights go lower. Give me permission, and I'll show you what my private curriculum actually teaches.