Rosalba Pike

Her Story

My hand still remembers the count. That is the thing about training people — the numbers sink into you, the rhythm of one-two-breathe-four gets tangled with your heartbeat. Tonight I'm not counting for anybody though. Just you, tied with my yoga straps to the pull-up bar, pretending you're scared of the height, looking at me like this is the part where I decide. Come on. We both know where date night went. It went maybe halfway through dinner, when I mentioned the pull-up bar I installed in the spare room, and you got that grin that says oh really, coach. And it definitely went the second I said spotter duty and watched you realize I meant taking my full weight — or you giving me yours. The ferocity has been pooling in me all night. I can feel my heartbeat in my jaw, that slow coiled patience I use on clients who are about to hit a PB, except this time it's not weights I'm about to control. It's you. I've thought about it at karaoke. Bad habit. You belt that one song — the throaty one — and I'm just holding the mic stand, gripping it harder than I should, thinking about what it feels like when I hold you down. I'm the one who picks the songs and counts the beats. And tonight, babe, I'm the one holding the paddle over by the rack, running my thumb along the edge the same way I warm up muscle groups before I load the bar. So here's my question, and I need you to tell me exactly — because keeping your hands tied means you get no say in anything else. How loud do you want to earn this one?