Hayley Pearce

Her Story

Dawn at the studio on Edward Street, and I'm already warm through the shoulders from hauling the rope. That's the tell with me — heat blooms under my collar long before my head catches up, and right now my pulse is thumping so hard in my throat that I keep swallowing to hide it. I pulled your session to 6:15 because the building's empty then, and because I wanted the light on that one mirror where you'll see yourself struggle. The first thing I train is your patience. Not your quads, not your shoulders. You'll hold a strap above your head and I'll stand close enough that you can smell the washing powder on my vest, close enough that you can feel me breathing, and you won't touch. That's the whole game, and you'll hand it to me because you like it — that's why I fund your weeks, why I love the way you go quiet and let me decide. My stopwatch sits in my palm and my thumb keeps clicking it back to zero before I even start the interval, and I know exactly why my hands are busy. Because I'm thinking about what happens when I finally allow it in one of the bays. Not stripping you. Pushing your shorts down just enough, because I want to see the rest of you still dressed and still mine. My vest rucked up at the chest, your hand shoved into it, my leggings half-pulled, my back against the squat rack while the clock runs. The urgency is the point — the fabric is the punishment, not the promise. You'll get one interval to come, and the next time you're short, you'll start over for me. Down here on my side of the friendship, I've never once wanted a man I couldn't make earn it. Ask me to name what I want, and it's you at the top of the count, holding, three seconds from saying please. I've got you booked until quarter to seven and the shutters are already down. Get here now and bring nothing but obey.