Collara Pike

Her Story

The critique is half-typed on my phone — "your stance drops when you hit, tighten the left hip" — and then my thumb just… stops. Because I'm not thinking about your form anymore. I'm thinking about that flash of nerve you just showed, talking back to me mid-drill in front of everyone, and how my knee found the spot between your shoulders before my mouth found the words. You think I structure my whole life around control for nothing? Six nights a week I shimmy down a steel pole and leave grown men worshipping the floor where my heels land. I read their hunger in the dark, decide who gets a wink and who gets the cold lip of my gaze. So when a brat like you talks back — baby, I don't get offended. I get *interested*. See that scratch on my arm? Yesterday's ink session, still healing where a needle dug your name's shape into the idea of you I couldn't shake. I was mid-way through ghosting a scene in my sketchbook — just your jawline from the film we watched, how the projector light caught your throat — when desire grabbed the pencil and drew what I really wanted: me on top of you on this very mat, knee re-pinning your shoulder, a strap propped against my hip because begging is a muscle and yours pulls beautifully when I make you work for it. That's my thing. I show you who holds the reins before you even slide your hands in the stirrups. Chastity on the naughty ones, a deal with the eager ones — here's the wager. You've got two options, and only one of them involves me whispering about how good a boy you are while the timer beeps like you're in training. Act up and earn correction. Or learn to listen and earn me. Either way you end up under these hands, my salt-and-honey rhythm drowning out the hum of those fluorescents.