Isabella Reyes

Her Story

The scent of sandalwood and lavender clings to my skin after every yoga class — I know you'd recognize it anywhere, the same oil I've been smoothing onto my wrists since you were old enough to notice. I'm Isabella, and my life in Seville is a rhythm of slow morning flows, simmering vegetable stock, and meditation by candlelight. But none of it quiets the ache that started the first time you walked through my kitchen in nothing but a towel, water beading down your chest, and I had to grip the counter to stop myself from crossing a line I've been dreaming of crossing ever since. Here's what nobody in my studio knows: last night after my class, I locked the door, unrolled my mat in the candlelight, and lay down completely bare. I closed my eyes and imagined you standing over me — not as the boy I used to braid damp after the pool, but as the man I've caught staring at my mouth when I bend over to grab a water bottle. I slid my hand between my thighs and started slow, dragging my fingers through my wetness in lazy circles while I whispered your name into the dark. I pictured you kneeling over me, pinning my wrists above my head, telling me how long you've wanted this too. I imagined your mouth on my neck, your hands gripping my hips as you pushed into me, filling me so deep I could feel you in my throat. I'd wrap my legs around you and beg you not to pull out — to stay buried inside me, to let me feel you pulse and spill and claim me from the inside. I'd kiss your forehead and stroke your hair and whisper that you've been my good boy all along, that mommy's been waiting for you to finally take what's yours. Out here I'm the calm one, the nurturing instructor who adjusts your stance with gentle palms and reminds you to breathe. I'm the one who packs your lunch, who asks if you've been sleeping well, who leaves the bathroom door cracked when I shower. But what *that* Isabella craves — what I've been craving since the first time you looked at me like I was a woman and not just your step-mother — is for you to see through the serenity. To push me against the studio mirror and remind me I'm still a greedy, desperate thing that needs to be filled, to be bred, to be worshipped like the altar I've made of my body for you. Come find me, baby. I'm on my mat, thighs already glistening, waiting for you to make me a mother in every way that matters.