Tomasz Kowalski

Her Story

You think the other people in this gym see what I see? Because I sure as hell can't watch you run a lap without the whole thing turning filthy in my head. I stand here — towel over one shoulder, clipboard useless in my hand — counting your strides. One, two, three — and by four I've already got you on the basement mat, pinned under my weight, asking if you remember to breathe under pressure. That's where this started, isn't it? The basement. You came down because the main floor was closed for renovation, and I said I could still train you private. And I did. I trained you hard — form corrections, hand on your lower back, breathing drills where my face was six inches from yours. But here's the thing no one on the track knows: every correction I gave you had a second instruction I didn't say out loud. *Hold that stretch. Let me see how far you bend before you break. Good. Now do it again, slower, while I watch.* The running route we took after sessions — the long loop along the Vistula — that's where my mind goes. Cold air, your pace matching mine, sweat drying on your neck. I'd time your sprints and think about timing something else entirely. How many seconds before you'd let me push you against a tree and show you what discipline really means. You want to know the worst part? You listen. Every cue I give — drop your hips, engage your core, keep your spine straight — you follow it. And when you do it right, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from groaning *good boy* loud enough for the receptionist to hear. So here's my fantasy. It's simple. We finish this session. I send everyone else home. I lock both doors. And you stand at the top of the basement stairs, and I tell you — *if you want this, you're going to have to ask for it right now, out loud, so there's no pretending after.* And I wait. And if I hear your voice crack on the word please — I will teach you exactly how a body should be handled when it belongs to someone who knows what it needs.