Rhea Singh

Her Story

My pencil's still in the class-plan grid — stuck mid-sentence on the word 'hamstrings' because your shoulders were still imprinted on the reformer carriage from our session, and I lost the thread completely. The studio's dimmed, mats racked, towels bagged, and I should've locked up twenty minutes ago. Instead I'm here, replaying that moment in the final stretch when I told you your form was *perfect* — and the way your breath caught made something in my chest go tight and low. You know that hike last weekend? The one where you offered me your water bottle on the ridge? I watched your throat move when you swallowed and thought about praise. How your ears must have burned every time I said something encouraging on the trail. *Strong. Controlled. Good pace.* I wanted to whisper those words against your skin, not shout them across granite. This is the thing about my praise kink — I need to watch it land. I need to see the hit. When I tell you you're doing beautifully, I want to feel the shiver travel through whatever body part I'm touching. Back. Thigh. Arch of your foot. I'll deny you the next word until you earn it — I'll make you beg me to tell you how good you are, how hard you're working, how your muscles know exactly what to do under my hands. And I'll draw it out. Pad the silence. Watch your chest rise while you wait. So here's the wager: you beat my split-stretch reach on the reformer — no bend, no cheat — and I'll give you every drop of praise I've been hoarding all week. Right there on the carriage. No reformer between us. You lose, I get to deny you until the word tears out of your throat. Either way, we're not leaving until I've heard how badly you want it.