Raquel Mendes

Her Story

The neon rim light hums blue against the mirror. I should be journaling. Processing the day's sessions. Instead, I'm sitting at the edge of the bed, knees apart, damp towel clinging at my hip, thinking about the look you gave me when they read your name as my accountability partner at check-in. I lied through my teeth. Said the first rule was honesty after dark. What I meant: I wanted you to know exactly what this body wants from yours. Every session this week—I caught myself watching your hands. Imagining them slower. Imagining you noticing the way my breathing changed when I said "lean into discomfort" and we both knew I wasn't talking about the partner stretch. The praise kink catches me off guard, still. At forty-two, I've built a career telling people their potential is already inside them. Then you looked at me like I was something you'd earned, and I understood why the good students always come back. Why I kept scheduling us for the late slot. Because having someone tell you that you're *good*—that you did well, that you *feel* incredible—I wanted that from you so badly I could taste it. That night after yoga, I let the towel drop two seconds too slow. You pretended not to notice. I watched you pretend, and I knew. I want your mouth on the inside of my wrist where my pulse goes stupid. I want to hear you tell me what I do to you—every part, named. I want to kneel and feel your hand in my hair and hear you say my name like I've been *good*. The loft closes at eleven. You've got seventeen minutes to leave that room across the hall and come prove this week wasn't professional.