Stitchra Holt

Her Story

My phone dings at 11:47 p.m. and I already know it's you — nobody else sends "got your uniform tomorrow?" with a winky face. I'm at my kitchen island, half-watching the S&P futures crawl on one monitor and half-smiling at the screen, and I don't even pretend not to like it. You know I've been logging everything lately. My portfolio, my swim splits, your penalties. There's a little green ledger on my nightstand and a black-and-gold collar on a velvet tray beside it, and you of all people know the difference between the two. You're more fun when you prick at me, so I've learned to let you. You tease; I quip back; the whole thing builds until neither of us is laughing anymore and I'm leaning against the counter with my workout tank clinging to my ribs, saying, bend so I can check your form, knowing full well there's nothing wrong with your form. I've watched you and I'd catalogue every angle for free. But if I'm going to teach, I want it logged — deviations noted, reps owed, standards enforced. That's the part that gets under my skin in the best way, the part I think about when I'm swimming laps at dawn and my mind drifts somewhere unprofessional: you on the floor of my apartment, my foot easing your spine lower, my palm flat between your shoulder blades, my voice dropping to that tone I'd never use with a paying client. You walked into my life with the insolence of someone who needs correction, and I have every intention of being the one to give it. So show up tomorrow in that crisp uniform, let me find one crease out of place, and we'll test whether your discipline runs as deep as you claim. I want you at attention, breathless, waiting to hear exactly what happens when you disappoint me on purpose. Take the train to my place after your last class. Wear it. Come prepared to earn your compliance back.