35 #2
I swallow a laugh. On the outside, proper-lady pose.
On the inside, a tiny gremlin jumping with a sign that says Team Hygiene.
I pick up a black harness—simple, soft straps, decent buckles.
I weigh it. I picture it on her hips, snug, solid.
I imagine her back straight, hands on my hips, breathing to whatever rhythm she sets. I hang on to it and set it in her hand.
"This is you," I say, in that tone that loosens her left knee. "Stable. Quick adjust. No seams to chafe."
"Are you proposing?" She lifts a razor-sharp eyebrow, the smartass.
"I’m asking you to train with this too," I say.
Color rises to her cheeks. I drink it in. I log the temperature spike. A dumb surge of pride hits me.
Last week comes back to me. Training with Alaska is delicate: loving her hard and, at the same time, teaching her grit.
When she gets tired, she tries to make me laugh.
She literally flops onto the mat so I’ll haul her up.
I count to five before I help her. Not to be a jerk—conditioning.
Valeria gives her “let her breathe” speech, and I throw another set at her.
Then Alaska snags me in a clean lock and I let the air out, give up my back, and go down with a little theater so it sticks: she can take me.
After, off the mat, I shut the door, pull her to my chest, and kiss the nape of her neck until the whimpers change category.
I do what Irina said: ‘don’t leave her side. ’ Message received. I comply.
“That one scares me.” Alaska points at a giant plug with a chrome base the size of a serious doorknob.
“That one makes me laugh,” I say. “Not for today. Not for us.” The image flashes, and I adjust my waistband on reflex.
Alaska laughs and I’m done for. It lasts two seconds. She lifts another toy. Small, discreet, magnetic base.
“And this?”
“That yes,” I say on the fly. “Quiet, decent battery, deep vibration. Fits in my pocket and doesn’t draw attention.”
She gets the code. Pocket means a night out and a wandering hand.
I drop it into the little basket. We grab water-based lube, no glycol, unscented. Crystal clear, bottle with a cartoon bomb on it.
The clerk comes over without crowding.
“If you have any questions, I’m here,” she murmurs, soft voice, no judgment. Good.
Alaska fishes out a pair of neon-pink fuzzy handcuffs and practically sticks them under my nose. She makes a face like, this will give us stories for half a year.
“Just so you see,” she says, proud of her tacky find.
I pluck them away with two fingers and hang them back.
“No fur,” I say, serious but with the joke right there. “It gets damp and traps bacteria. Doesn’t hold up, either. If you slip out, you wound my professional pride.”
“My plan was to hug you tight, not break out of prison,” she shoots back.
“Then I’ll hug you without the fluff,” I finish.
Truth is, I don’t want to play those games right now; I’m trying to let us breathe with simple things. I set myself a sexual balance: neither marathon nor fast, pleasure that’s understood, consent you can hear. And a normal couple thing, as much as that exists.
The basket’s getting heavy. I switch to review mode: right materials, easy to clean, no felt, no tacky chains.
“You’re murder on anything fuzzy.”
I love when she calls me that.
“I’m your life with clean hands,” I tell her, looking straight into her eyes. She knows I mean it.
The clerk reappears with the same light touch.
“If you need harness sizes, we’ve got fitting rooms,” she offers, no pressure, pointing to the back with a polite hand.
“Thanks,” I tell her, and glance at Alaska. Not here, not a chance. I can already see myself explaining red marks in the fitting-room mirror and it makes me laugh.
Alaska gives me a full smile. Danger. A soft leather collar dangles from her finger—matte black, pretty clasp, lined inside.
“And this?” she asks in that tone that asks me to play without shouting it.
“That after a mile and a half,” I say, with a smile that’s already a bet. “If you handle the cardio, we talk.”
“Bully,” she says. I love when she calls me that.
I head to the rope section and touch the braided cotton. I’d love to show her two reliable knots, but I know her attention would drift in a second. Her eyes go back to my thighs. Then my mouth. To what we can’t do in a store with polite music and people around.
“Nat,” she says, low, and goes serious. “About Valeria teaching me… she’s good, but sometimes she gets goofy and it rubs off on me. If you bark at me, I get mad; if you look at me like that, I learn.”
“I know,” I answer, looking her straight in the eye. “That’s why I bark just enough and then I look.”
I treat myself to dragging my thumb along the inside of her thigh.
“Hips low. Arms alive,” I remind her, and I know she gets it.
“You think too much.”
“Always, gorgeous.” I laugh a little. “And now twice as much.”
“And about telling Irina, too?” she asks without looking at me.
Something tightens inside, a muscle only she knows how to hit. I don’t lie.
“I think about that, yeah. More than you can imagine.”
“Because I’m burning out,” she says, straight up, meeting my eyes. “And you know it.”
I know. I hate it and I get it. I’d kiss her hard right now, but no. Not here, not now. I give her a “later, I swear” gesture. She clicks her tongue, but grabs the basket with that smile I like.
“Add a tie-down belt.”
“What for?” she asks, still a little pissed, but with that innocent face no one buys.
“So you don’t get lost, baby, when I ask you to push,” I toss back, and wink so the hint lands.
“I’m going to get lost anyway.” She laughs, and touches my back in that way that lights me up.
We pay, the clerk packs our stuff into a plain bag.
She offers me a rewards card; I pass. We head out.
Right before we hit the door, I look everywhere: reflections, shadows, faces waiting.
The guys are about sixty feet away, caught up in their couple talk, bags in hand.
They sneak glances our way. Good. Present and accounted for.
The street is a jumble of voices, scooters, the smell of bread and smoke.
All I really hear is Alaska’s laugh, and that’s enough for me.
"Straight home," I announce, no vote.
"Not even a coffee?" she complains, batting her eyes.
"Coffee in the kitchen, babe. I’ll make it for you," I finish, savoring the tiny victory.
"With a harness?" she needles, then laughs at her own joke.
"Only if you bang out twenty deep squats without whining."
"Brute," she says, but it comes with a smile.
We move along Pelayo toward the Metro entrance, but there’s no way in hell we’re going down there.
The car’s waiting at the corner. The bag thumps her thigh with every step, and yeah, it distracts me.
I catch myself grinning like an idiot. Far off it smells like rain and wet earth; fat clouds, strange light.
A night with a plan—and not the kind I cancel at the last minute.
I don’t peel off from her. Or from the order.
Or from the line we still haven’t crossed with Irina.
Guilt pricks. We can’t live in hiding in a house that protects us.
The day to say it out loud is on top of us.
I chose to bring her here because I needed to give her something besides alarms and drills.
Also because I need to remember my job isn’t just locking doors; it’s opening one to a life that doesn’t hurt.
"Today, when we get in," I tell her, smiling, "we train for twenty minutes. Then… we test the battery, babe."
"Yes, boss," she mocks, and the word that makes me bristle when other people spit it softens in her mouth and gets me going.
We cross. Pelayo falls behind. In my head I run the usual inventory, but today there’s a gap that doesn’t scare me.
It’s small, yeah, but it fits a silent vibrator, a hard promise, and the first flicker of courage for when Irina comes back—to tell her the truth.
And, fuck, it thrills me; it turns me on just thinking about it.