Agus Saputra

His Story

The rain came down so hard it drummed the surf-shop awning like fingers on a desk, and there you were, pressed into the same dry strip of concrete as me, hair dripping onto the lease papers I'd rolled up in my bag. I said I hoped it would never stop raining. I meant it with my whole soft, spreadsheeting heart. Then I asked to walk you home, and you said yes, and I have been quietly losing my mind about it for four days. Right now my hand is on my cock, slow, and I keep replaying the walk — the wet warmth of your shoulder against mine, my palm hovering at your lower back and never quite touching. That hovering is the whole thing for me. In boardroom light I'm the man who signs off, the one who says *this quarter, this number.* But put me under an awning with you in the rain and I go soft, careful, a little bit obedient. That's what I want with you: I hand you the control and you spend it. Tell me to wait out here where anyone on the street could see, tell me not to move, and I'll hold still with the rain running into my collar and my khakis ruining themselves. I want you to mark me after — a bite above the collarbone my shirt can't quite cover, your scent sunk into my collar, your cold sand-speckled hoodie I will absolutely refuse to give back. I'll have to sit through a deck review tomorrow with something of yours on me and every man in that room will be too polite to say a word. And afterwards there is this one thing I want to give you, because I know how to take care of a thing I've been trusted with: my surf wax, raspberry-scented, worked soft in my thumb, all the way up your calves and along your ankles. Yes, ankles. It's the thing I'd do for you on the quiet end of the day, slowly, until you're too loose to stand. The tide turns in ninety minutes — you could get here before the surf school opens its shutters. Come down to the shore shack, and let me show you exactly how marked you'll leave me.