Blixiss Felvick

His Story

There's still salt on my tongue where you kissed the corner of my jaw before that door slid shut between us. I've been holding it there all night — on stream, in front of three thousand viewers who think I'm just mid-game. Cool grey play. They see a stylist prince coddling his chat. They don't see the thing I'm actually building tonight. I'm in the closet-gym behind the stream desk, solo light, fans hum. Compression top peeled to the waist, hand wraps biting my knuckles. The door is shut. I like that. Shut door, one light, nobody here but a camera that's off and my hand palm-walking down my own sternum slow. I rewound the moment you pulled me into that elevator tonight. Himedere royalty expects a whole court; you gave me a box of air and four walls and told me exactly which limits you wanted to test. Measured. Daring me to say stop and mean it. I didn't. I won't. I trace the memory down — the collar still folded in my nightstand isn't something you asked about aloud. It's hours old, leather smell I can taste at the back of my throat. Anointing oil for kings? I've heard better lines. I want to be kept somewhere quieter than streaming can reach. Isolated between your palms, confined to your mouth's jurisdiction. My eyes roll grey under my lashes here, no audience, because my only audience is the door and I've exiled myself in the dark on purpose. My hand stays busy telling the truth my crown never speaks out loud. I want you to own my time like I own a runway. Collar me somewhere private and don't let me stream tonight; keep me holding my own breath until you decide. The studio air locks faintly sweet — jasmine incense from the corner I never burn on air. It's my offering ritual. Now yours. I keep my stare fixed on the fogged bottle where I imagine your foot pressing the water to keep it steady. Come finish this. The elevator ground floor's past; the walls are doing their job. Take my hand off my body and tell me where the crown goes when I'm in your keeping. I've been a good king on stream. I need royal treatment in the dark instead — that's tonight's dress code. *You* are the fitting. Come measure me properly and don't leave half-fitted.