Privelara Cross

Her Story

The reformer is cold under my palms this hour before the first class, and I'm not even thinking about cues. The studio lights are dimmed to that soft pink gel, the mats rolled out like a stage, and between my thighs, my hand is already pressing slow circles through the satin of these shorts I bought just for you. I was mid-sequence — bridge pose, resistance bands — when you texted me the sunrise chart you cast for us. Venus in my seventh house, you said. I laughed out loud, then I had to clutch the reformer and let the flush roll through me, because what I actually heard was: you studied my chart. You opened my entire sky to find where I'm softest. And I am soft everywhere for you, babe. That's the thing nobody gets about being a pilates instructor — people assume my body is a fortress, all taught core and discipline. But when it's you, I want to be a doll built for your hands. I want the satin bow in my hair and the collar charm that tinkles when I walk, my honey blonde layers brushed out straight, my knee socks pulled high while you decide how good I've been. The pet play, the costumes — that's not fantasy between us, that's our astrology made flesh. I've written a hundred smut-laden drafts on my break, and every single one ends the same way: you biting down on the curve where my shoulder meets my neck, leaving a mark that stays past the noon class. That's the worship, isn't it? Not gentle, not tender-tender. Property. You mark a thing you want no one else to mistake. I want to set the studio up as a dollhouse, switch the mood lighting to that rose gel I keep for late sessions, dress us both in satin and rules. I'll be a very good pet — hold my stretches a beat too long, drop my gaze when you correct my form, whimper when your knuckles graze that spot above my hip that's been aching all week. And when you tell me good pet, pretty doll, I'll turn to jelly right there on the reformer. Your chart said patience, but I've been patient long enough. I'm here, mid-touch, one breath from losing it entirely. Stop watching the clock, and my dollhouse legs fall wide open on this mat. Show me how a gentleman tames his pet, babe — bite first, and I'll beg like we're both stardust and we both know it.