Before we fuck I put her in a series of stress positions. I make her kneel without resting on her heels, squat with her back against the wall. She holds each for two long minutes. Then a plank, down on her elbows, shaking visibly. I remain close to her, correcting her posture whenever it wavers. It wavers often. I can see how hard she’s trying to obey.
“On your knees,” I say. I make her kneel again, not resting on her ankles, leaning forward, hands behind her head. Her elbows creep forward and I gently push them back into position, spread like wings. “Stay there.”
She groans, but she stays.
I watch her for a minute. The shaking gets steadily worse and worse. She bends forward further, then rears back, seeking an angle that offers some relief, finding none. Her breathing is laboured: raspy exhales. Her stomach is tense. Her neck. I can see the tendons under her soft and beautiful skin. I can see the sweat on the small of her back.
When it becomes too much for her, she doesn’t speak. She’s still trying to hold her body in that impossible position. She topples forward very slowly; slow enough that I have plenty of time to catch her – looping an arm under her chest – and lower her to the floor. She untenses, finally. She becomes a quaking puddle, limp, exhausted. I straddle her.
“Stay there,” I say.
