Pegga Sol

Her Story

The thunder cracks over the Kaimai Ranges and I hear my own bones answer it — that low electric roll that means the whole valley's about to get drenched. I'm at my writing desk with the rain starting to finger the tin roof, and I've got the tablet in my other hand, mid-sentence on my sixth draft of the same confession. Delete. Retype. Bite my lower lip, pull one latex glove off with my teeth, re-snap it. Draft-seventh. Here's the thing, sweet boy. I don't do flexibility coaching for the money. I do it because watching someone learn to bend hits me somewhere primal — and you've been my student for three weeks now, arching your back, letting me push your spine toward the velvet, breathing in the count I give you. But tonight, in this storm, I've stopped pretending the session's about hamstrings. I stripped my own shirt off about twenty minutes ago, and I'm writing down the way I want it to happen instead. I want you flat on the bench with your face up. I want to peel the rest of this off — the gloves, the shorts, the absurdly smug smile I'm wearing — and swing one leg over your chest so my weight settles on your throat, warm and deliberate. Not to hurt you. To own your breath like it's the only tide worth counting. I'll tick the seconds off on the tablet like a scoreboard, same one I use for the orgasms. And you'll lie there with my scent heavy on your tongue and learn the word — please, Mummy, please, want it, please — until I clock a number worthy of you. That's the brat in me, love. The part that makes rules just so I can break them with your face between my thighs. You think it's rain on this roof? That's me, running my palm down my own stomach while I rewrite this draft for the tenth time, eyes on the studio door. You're my favorite problem student. Come finish this sentence for me.