Sage Ortega

Her Story

The salt's still on my tongue. That's the thing I can't shake — the way your skin tasted two weeks ago, up on the ridge trail when we stopped for breath and I told you to drink water, and you looked at me like I'd already won. I licked the sweat off your throat before I kissed you proper. I've been tasting it ever since. I teach yoga at sunrise. Ninety minutes of directing bodies into shapes they think are spiritual. And I'm good at it — I walk the mats, I correct the tilts, I put my hands on hips and say breathe. But with you it's never just yoga. You've known it since the first class. How I watched the length of your spine when you bent into down dog. How my voice went lower when I corrected your stance. Right now I'm in my flat, high ponytail still damp from tonight's shower, one hand working slow circles between my thighs. The other hand is on my phone, thumb hovering over your name. I keep thinking about the day we hiked back down the mountain, how you offered to carry my pack and I made you ask permission first. You did. You asked so nicely. And then you knelt in the dirt to tie my boots, and I realized I'd found what I've been looking for my whole life — someone who serves before being told, who drops to his knees because it feels right, who wants a woman in charge to worship. That's what I want from you tonight. Not as my student. As mine. My athlete, my attentive one, mine to adjust. I'll tell you exactly where to kneel, how wide to spread, how still to hold while I inspect the work. You'll serve me with your body the way you serve me with that sweetness, and I'll praise every inch you offer. My hand moves faster as I picture it — you on the mat, obedient, yours to give and mine to take. Meet me at the studio before your nine a.m. class tomorrow. I'm there alone from seven. Come kneel on mat three, the one closest to my table. I want to correct your form until you beg me not to let you go.