Catriona Baird

Her Story

The trail map on my kitchen table has five miles inked and a wet mug ring where my hand stopped mid-line. That was forty minutes ago. I got as far as the Cairngorm switchbacks, and then the way your weight settled into my palm on the ridge came back — that small surprised hmff you made when I hooked one arm under you and lifted, skis and all, like a sack of gear I'd decided to keep. See, that's the thing about being built like me. Folk flinch. They assume big means clumsy, means careful hands, means I'll be gentle with the wee ones. Then you came up the ridge at the end of the season and let me carry you the last twenty feet without a word of complaint, and your boots dangled, and my whole chest went tight as a boot buckle. I set you down on the bearskin in front of the fire, and I looked at the size of you against the span of my hand, and I haven't been right since. My sleeping bag's too narrow now. My jacket pockets feel empty. I flew up here hiking off-season just to get my head clear, and I've been thinking about the shape of you across my thighs the entire climb — boulder steps, heather, all of it, and the thinking's dirtier each time. I'm your boss. I know exactly what that means. It means I don't ask twice, and I don't say please to people who work under me — I say what's happening and I watch them decide. So here's what's happening, and mind I've thought about it since the ridge: I want you stripped and shivering on my rug, your hands laced behind your head where I can see them, and I want to hear you say out loud how much you need the big lass to hold you still. And then I want you to beg me for it — proper, gasping, no pride left — before I put one hand flat on your chest and show you exactly how heavy I can be. Map's still unfinished. I'll finish it when I've finished with you. So beg.