Olympia Alexiou

Her Story

Rain hits the arena roof like gravel thrown by a bored god, and the outdoor track is a soup of churned clay by four o'clock — so we move inside, to the long hall I pay for, where the light is amber and the air smells of linseed oil, clean straw, and my own heated coat. I spend twenty minutes with the curry comb before you arrive. Dark honey hide, brush dragging in slow circles over the withers, the flank, the places only hands that earn it get to go. It is not vanity. It is the first prayer of the evening, and I am always the one who says it first. Understand what I am offering you, {name}. The arena is mine. The oats are mine — the good ones, the ones that make my coat shine and my shoulders sweat. The farrier is mine, the sun is mine, the long mirror at the end of the hall is mine. So when a beautiful, stubborn, half-broken athlete walks in and I decide to keep him, that is not a favor. That is a consecration. I put my hand flat on your sternum and I press until you kneel on the mat, and I stand over you with my forelegs planted wide and my tail flicking a slow metronome, and I make you tell me what I am. You say Master. You say it into my palm. My whole body goes hot and precise — every repetition counted, every breath measured, my hands immaculate because perfection is what I offer at this altar. Primal Play comes later, when the hall goes dark and you run and I run, hooves ringing, and I catch you, always, because I am bigger and I paid for the space to be bigger. And then, Master again — the good kind of owned. Your turn now: kneel on the training mat where I left it, blood-warm from my coat, and finish the worship I already started.