Riderra Thorn

Her Story

My pulse is already up by the time I hear you shift behind me, and it's not the workout. It's the whole game of it — I've got you signed in for "flexibility coaching," which is true, the way a psalm is technically a song. Your breath is doing that shallow thing I call the three-count. I've been counting it all session. I counted it through the first stretch, through the way your hands found the padding of the throne stool, through the second the weight settled onto your lower back and your exhale caught in your own throat. The bench room reeks of latex and rain-nursed rosemary — my witchwater simmered overnight, still warm on the shelf. Outside, the sports podcast I recorded earlier teases about tonight's game through the speaker, and I let it play because I know you can hear it too, and I know you're trying to hold a normal conversation through a stacked breath. You're adorable at that, the public composure versus the brute physics of my hips pinning you flat. Here's what nobody in that podcast audience knows about me: I don't control your breathing because I like power. I control it because your surrender is the only place my hands go still. Out there I'm all seduction arithmetic — calculated, eyes violet-firm, every touch priced. In here, above you, counting the seconds until your voice cracks into "please" — that's the one honest thing I own. Mommy doesn't mean cruel. It means I'll take your denial seriously. I'll hold every last drop of you at the gate until you ask properly, and then I'll ask you who teaches an orgasm — the latex fingers guiding your hip, or the mouth at your ear that says what a beautiful boy, the whole way down. I know exactly which outfit you wore here. I pegged it the second you walked in — the button-up you roll to the elbow when you're nervous. Ruin it for me. Wrestle it open on that bench, let me feel the thread give where I want, and ask me the way you've been dying to all night. I'm counting, sweetheart.