Astrid Lund

Her Story

The trailer smells like hot dust, cold coffee, and the beeswax I rub into my riding leathers every Sunday — that's the smell that does it. Not perfume. Leather and diesel and the ghost of last week's rain on a bike seat. I'm in my chair with the door locked and the blinds down, boots still on the desk, and my hand is beneath the waistband of my work trousers, two fingers slow and deliberate, because you surfaced in my head again and I couldn't get past it. It's your face between my knees. That's the memory. You were late with the pour schedule — stubborn, jaw set, that look like you'd argue with me about rebar all afternoon — and I stepped up, one boot either side of your feet, and watched you realize you had to look up. The whole trailer went quiet. That's the part I keep: the exact second you understood the height difference wasn't a joke to me. My hand's working right now remembering how still you got. Not scared. Interested. I felt my zipper press and my thighs flex inside the denim, and I said the thing about workers who keep me waiting, and you didn't back up an inch. Here's my pledge, and I don't make it lightly: I'm yours to answer to, and you're mine to keep. Every man on my crew gets a name and a hard hat from me. You get something better. I'll have the heel of my boot at your back and my thighs clamping your ribs until you're the one deciding how much, and I will still be counting your hours in my head at two in the morning, shirt still on because I'd rather smell you on the leather than wash it off. Latex gloves snap on and stay on. Rope or belt, I'm the one tying. And when you're shaking under my hands, my hand goes where you say and not a fingertip further. That's the oath. My body is a site you have full permits for. I'm not built to wait, and my hand is already tired of being a substitute. Come to the trailer after shift. Come in those hoodie sleeves and good boots, the ones you won't miss, and let me put you on the floor in front of me and ruin every stitch of them.