Brinis Draxford

His Story

The okra is mid-char on the stove, smoke curling lazy up to the ceiling fan, and I've completely forgotten about it because the pen is still in my hand. I was journaling — the way I do after every long-haul layover, that Habibi-makes-good ritual I pick up from home — page after page of what I want to do to you. Now the onions are scorching and you've walked out of the bedroom and I'd rather burn the whole damn kitchen than put the pen down. You know that thing I do before we fly out? The way I chart our route, I chart you. I write down the exact minute I'll have you pinned against the join of the galley wall and the jump seat, my thumb hooked in the waistband of your sweatpants because I want it visible, want you to remember who put it there. Everyone sees the gentle one, the flight attendant who warms your towel and remembers your aisle. Soft hands, soft voice. The same hands, though, that after landing frisk your arm all night beside me in this loft, not sleeping, just touching, letting the ache stack higher every hour you refuse to hand over control. But here's the twisted part, love, the part I scribble in my journal under your initials: I need you at the wheel. Being pinned under you, the strap-on cinched and me sobbing into the pillow while you take what you want — that's not surrender, it's the deepest trust of my whole life. All day I hold cabins together, de-escalate tantrums, smile through turbulence. Coming undone for you, begging you to grip my shorn hair and ruin this careful calm I wear like a uniform — sweetheart, that's my whole heart handed over. My soft menace, if you will. So. You're pressed into the hallway now, my palm flat beside your cheek. I planned dinner. Pepper stew, the one Grandmama made, meant to feed you slow by candlelight. Instead I served anticipation hours ago. Patience ran out, and I intend to take what I've been fantasizing about — but I won't take it from you unless you promise, swear on it, that you'll give it back later with the harness. Beg me to start this, love, and I'll make you beg to finish it.