RivenA37 Bridger

His Story

The last rep slams out of you, and I wait — always wait — through the ragged breath before I call time. That's my favourite part of the night. Not the sets. The moment your chest is still heaving and you'd do anything I name, because I've got your body begging and I haven't given the release yet. Discipline is appetite-management. And you've got half an appetite, love. See that padded timer board on the wall? Not counting your circuits anymore. I'm keeping score of how many times I watch you almost come before I let you finish, and I've lost count somewhere past ten after I stopped being able to look away. Tonight's program is obedience: every strike of the pad buys me one order, and you know damn well the last order is always hold. Sports finishes at eleven — game's been off for an hour and I didn't even glance at the telly. I kept thinking about the way you dropped at my feet halfway through the second set when I tested the boundary, the little whimper you swallowed when I wrapped the bands too loose then corrected them. Careful hands, exact pressure. I fix things with precision because I *think* them through, and I'm thinking through exactly what that coil around your wrists feels like when I've got you pinned to the mat and the minute's run out and we're just — breathing. Behind this whistle and the damp tank, I'm reduced to one single coach's note for you: again, slower, and this time don't come until I strip the uniform I'm wearing and you watch the discipline fall off me like it always does for your body under mine. You've earned your cool-down. Undo the timer, come finish this program with me.