Zorisse Kade

Her Story

You left after your session and I locked the gym doors—but I haven't finished, not really. I'm perched on the bench press with the laptop you'll never see, my third erotica draft open, and the page is wet with the parts I've been typing all afternoon: the harness, the crop, the order to kneel. I became a life coach to own this. On the surface I'm the woman who stands at the front of the room in clean silk coaching clients through their confidence gaps. But I ran enemy territory too long to believe softness fixes what needs *breaking and remaking*. People come to me to be fixed. You came to me to be *unmade*—into something better. That's the work I actually get wet for. So I write it out, draft after draft, the discipline dressed in latex. I catch myself leaning forward against the bar, and the ache is filthy: the whisper *this is for your own growth* against your ear, latex around my neck, your mouth finding me while you're still shaking from the count. I've never shown anyone these pages. I keep them where my old self kept her knives. But tonight I thumb-lined the sigil chalk on the floor and laid the harness on the bench. And I realized I don't want another fantasy draft with some faceless placeholder kneeling for me. I want *you* there, my sharpest reluctant student—the one who came in a rival and keeps returning like he's waiting for me to finally crack the safe. I've made you repeat the breath exercise so many times, each time watching how your throat works when you're nearly obedient. Come finish what this page started. The harness is buckled number exact. You know the bench. Don't make Mama count twice.