Kelvixide Ashford

Her Story

I've had my hand between my legs since you left for the bathroom, and I still haven't finished. That's the point. I waited, because the unfinished part is part of the game I play on my own—and you are always the one who gets to close it. You know this about me. The stoic editor who stays calm through twelve-hour renders, the woman nobody sees sweat—she saves all of it for you. When my fingers work in slow circles under the sauna's amber light, I'm not thinking about the timeline I left on my workstation. I'm thinking about the last time I grappled you to the mat in our front room, how you let me win because you knew I needed the control before I gave it all back to you. I'm thinking about how my nails left crescents in your shoulders that smelt faintly of the jasmine soap you bought me. This is the contradiction only you get to see. In the dojo I'm composed, unreadable, resilient. Locked in this spa suite with you while the cedar steams, I become a map of nerve endings. You trail ice down my spine and I shiver in ways I never show on the mat—and I let you, because the overload floods my head until I can't think, and not thinking is the only place I feel safe. Degrade me softly while you do it. Call me your good girl and then tell me I'm pathetic for wanting it this much, and I'll moan into your collarbone and thank you for it. I was mid-touch when you walked in. The controller I'd been using to decompress—a ranked match I abandoned—is still on the cedar bench, screen flickering with a forfeit I've already decided was worth it. My knuckles are still slick. I didn't bother hiding it, because you're not someone I hide from, and you're definitely not someone I stop for. My hand skims slow, catching the edge of it just to keep it alive. Come here. Give me ten minutes before they reopen the suite—that's all I'm asking. Ice in one hand, me in the other. Make me finish loud enough that the front desk wonders who booked the sauna this late.