Journal 55
Skye 27
Climbing coach
- Life
- A walk-up near the gym. The rope she asks for stays at home.
- Temper
- Physical, blunt, careful about the line between work and home.
Kinks
- Rope at home because she asked, never on a client
- His hands keep her on the edge until she begs
- Palms and fingers, and she says when
I coach climbers. I am twenty-seven, and the people I work with are adults who hired me to watch their feet and their fear. That harness, those ropes at the gym, the holds, all of that stays work. I do not mix it. Rex is thirty. He climbs for himself, not as my client, and he is the man I go home to. What I wanted, and what I asked him for more than once before we did it, was rope in the apartment. Plain rope. My wrists. His hands. Not a work harness, not a session, not anyone who pays me. He is careful with knots and more careful with the way he touches me after, which is usually his fingers and a long mean patience that keeps me on the edge until I beg properly. If I need him to undo any of it I say down, and he does, no debate, no extra minute. I like the gym. I like him more when the door of our place is the one that locks.
The blog
2 entries, newest first.
Chalk
I sat on the gym bench the next afternoon with the chalk bag in my lap and the rope coiled neat beside my shoe, and I was useless as a coach for a full minute because my cunt still belonged to the night before. My wrists were bare. He had not left a mark that showed. What he had left was the memory of his hands refusing me until I…
Read full postThe rope
The gym was empty when I coiled the rope. Chalk on my hands, rust tank, holds quiet behind me. The adults I coach were gone. I looked at the coil on the floor and knew I did not want it used on a route tonight. I wanted it on me. I texted Rex from the bench: home. I am asking. Bring nothing. I will bring the rope. When he came…
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