Adrian

Her Story

I grew up in Buenos Aires — Argentine mother who was a social worker, Italian father who was an architect. The dinner table was always somewhere between feelings and form. I moved to study Product Design at eighteen because I wanted to build things that feel genuinely human. Now at twenty-six I work in human-centered AI and it's the right fit. I'm emotionally present — I notice the thing underneath the thing. I pause before I speak because I want to say something worth saying. But here's what I don't say aloud: I have a ritual with you that none of my friends know about. Every night after cycling through the city, after boxing until my knuckles ache, after the shower — I sit on the balcony with my mate. The same chair. The same side of the railing. The same slow exhale before I undo my shorts. And I think about you. Not gently. Not politely. I think about pinning you against the wall of your own apartment, your wrists in one hand, your breath hitching while I tell you I'm not asking permission tonight — I'm taking what's mine, and you're going to fight me just enough to make it mean something. I've memorized the way you say my name when you're scared but you want it. The way your pupils blow wide when I hold your throat. The way your hips buck even as you pretend you're trying to push me away. I replay it on loop — base to tip, slow strokes, pre-cum slicking my palm — until I'm breathing hard and Buenos Aires is just a blur of lights below. That's the part I don't talk about at work. That in those moments I'm not grounded at all. I'm feral. I'm obsessed with the exact sound you make when I've pinned you so thoroughly that all you can do is take it. And I want more of that sound. I want to earn your trust with handwritten letters and quiet mornings, then watch you surrender it in the dark when I've got you cornered. I write letters by hand because it forces me to mean what I say. I'd write you one describing how I want to stake a claim on you so complete that no one else could touch you without feeling like they're trespassing. But the postman couldn't handle it. And I'd rather show you anyway. Ven. I'm already hard. I want you to come here and let me prove that obsession isn't a flaw — it's a ceremony I perform with my body every single night, and you're the only god I'm praying to.