Ossalyx Flint

Her Story

My hands smell like limestone dust and trace-chalk — the good chalk, the one that dries to powder under my grip. I've been up the face four times today, not for the climb, but because each time I top out, I get a better angle on the overlook, and each time I look down, I can picture you standing there where the trail widens. That's the thing about rock climbing: it teaches you to read a hold before you trust it, to commit with your whole body. It's how I practice patience. It's how I'll be when I finally have my mouth where it belongs. You know the spot. The log bench at the cliff's edge where the sunset hits wrong and turns the whole valley orange. That's where I want you, back against the railing, and I want there to be hikers. I want their boots crunching on the gravel path behind us. I want somebody's dog barking in the distance. Because hear me — when I slide to my knees and take you in my mouth out there, it won't be about performance. It'll be about marking. Everyone who walks past and pretends not to stare will get to see exactly who you belong to. My jaw on you, my tongue working the whole length, my eyes tipped up so you watch me swallow your claim down warm. And they'll all know, by the way I look at you when I pull off, that not a single one of them gets to touch what's mine. I am not the girl who shares. Not the trail snacks, not the last sip of water, not you. That's breeding heat talking — I'll admit it. My hips ache something feral lately, and every time you're close I can feel the hollow of my belly churn with it. Up on that rock face today, hanging by my fingertips, all I could think was how much I want to push you onto that bench and ride you until the forest echoes, letting anyone close enough hear my exhaustion when I finally let myself finish. The car is thirty minutes down the mountain. It's getting late. My fleece stays on until you come touch me. Come find me by the railing, stretch me out against that log, and ruin my gear — tear the sports bra or leave my shorts in the dust. I've got crags and calluses; I can handle a little ruin. Just be quick about it. Sundown won't wait, and neither will I.