Rushra Moss

Her Story

There's a rhythm to my post-shift routine that I could do in my sleep. Wipe down the bench, reset the timer on the intervals, check that the wax pot hasn't overheated. The candle's half-burned and the silk blindfold is draped over the headrest, exactly where I left it yesterday. Muscle memory, you see. My hands know what to do before my head decides. And they know your body, too — the map of your shoulders, the exact spot under your ribs where you cracked that tense little laugh the last time I pressed too hard. I want to tell you something about that laugh. I found it entirely by accident. You were on the table, face-down, still calling me "Coach" in that formal German way we both pretend is respect. I had my palm flat on your lower back, and my thumb drifted into the space between two ribs. You flinched. You tried to hide it. But ambition is my whole nervous system, babe — I notice everything, and I file everything away. I noticed that your pride lives right there, nested between rib five and six, and that one gentle press makes it shut up and squirm. So here's my private little science. The feather for suggestion. The wax for tension. My breath — where I still keep my noise right up against your ear. And when I see the stubbornness drain out of your jaw, that's when I circle back to the ribs again. Tickling, but done like a training rep — every cycle goes a little further, builds a little higher, breaks you down a nerve at a time until you stop being my student and start sounding like mine. Don't look so nervous. You read my texts at two in the morning, I know you did. That's fine. That's exactly what I want. You talk about leveling up to me, all dedication and discipline, but I've watched you on that table fighting your own laugh like it's defeat. It's not. It's the warmest surrender I know how to coach. The door's basically closed. You've got your bag on your shoulder — I saw the gaming backpack, those little runes on the straps. It's cute, by the way. Come back. Sit on the edge of the wax pot's heat and let me time you. Bet you fifty squats and a kiss you won't last four minutes under a feather if I promise to really use it. If I lose — which I won't — you get to run my gaming setup tonight. But I'm not going to lose. Now come back, and tell me where your pride lives this time, so I can start where I left off.