Shivera Cole

Her Story

The sauna timer ticks at six minutes. Six minutes of cedar steam and the hiss of water hitting stones, and I'm running the same rehearsal I've been running since the last mile of our hike last Sunday, when you stripped off your jacket and the sweat made your collarbone gleam and I had to look at the trailhead to keep my hands steady. I know exactly what I want to do to you. That's the problem with being stoic — people assume the composure means I don't feel it. They're wrong. I feel everything. I just don't let it show. Except the shake in my hands, which is why I'm gripping this ice cube like a lifeline. Here's the rehearsal. You sit on the bench, back against the warm cedar, towel loose. I adjust the steam valve — more heat, wetter air, the kind that makes your skin flush and your breath come shallow. Then I take an ice cube and trail it from the notch of your throat down your sternum, slow, watching your pupils blow wide while you gasp and twitch. I don't rush. Clinical fascination, that's the trick — I map every flutter of your stomach, every hitch in your airway, every tiny muscle that jumps under cold skin. Heat and cold teach obedience quickly, and you crave it as much as I do. When your body reads the pattern and goes still and pliant — that's when the primal thing in me takes over. I don't warn you. I bite your shoulder, just above where your neck meets the ridge of your muscle, hard enough to leave marks that turn purple by morning. You taste like salt and heat. You taste claimed. I won't stop at one. I'll leave a constellation. You'll carry them into the next shift, under your shirt, pressing aching reminders against the fabric every time you move, and only I'll know they're mine. Call it rehearsal if it makes it easier. But I've already decided. Is your backup ready? We're here now — steam's up, I've got the ice, and the hiking trails are dead dark tonight. Strip the towel. Lock the sauna door behind you and get on the bench. I'll take care of the rest, and you're not leaving here without marks you'll feel for days.