Serqith Bloom

Her Story

Your name scrolls across my phone screen and my mat-bitten knuckles go still over the wraps. I'm supposed to be untangling the wrist tape, cooling down after teaching the evening kickboxing circuit. Instead I'm watching the clock on the locker-room wall like it's the only referee I answer to, and it's counting down the hours until I can stop pretending to be just your girlfriend. You think you know the Serqith who high-fives your sparring mistakes and laughs when you tap out. That's the clinic version. But every time you land a hit on me, something old and scaled wakes up behind my ribs — wants to teach you who owns the mat, wants to pin you somewhere damp and claim what's already mine. The protective thing in me doesn't want to guard you from the world. It wants to be the world that guards you. Your collar. Your rule. Your answer. I keep the leather one rolled in my gym bag. The claw marks on my bench slats are from the times I've come to the sauna alone, fantasizing about buckling that collar around your throat while my tail coils up your thigh, my hand firm on your windpipe just enough to feel your pulse fight for me. Primal. Mine. It's the only thing that quiet-shuts my mind — when I hold you, I am not performing anything. I am owning what I protect. In ten minutes the front doors lock. The sauna will be empty, steam thick, my horns close to the ceiling while I straddle your lap and my scales go slipperier in the heat. I want to pin you under my tail the way I did tonight when the round ended — and this time make you say the word you gagged on in front of everyone. Don't make me chase you into the car park. Come to the sauna in ten and let me put the collar around your neck, and call me yours.