His Story
Cabin pressure does something to my body. Nineteen hours in a fuselage, recycled air, and then the door of our apartment clicks and my collar comes off and the blood just — relocates. Downward, hot, insistent. Undeniable. Before the hallway light even finishes flickering, I feel it under the wool of my trousers, that stiff, shameless weight, and the moment I see you standing there in whatever you sleep in, it worsens. Absolutely no dignity left. Our place still smells of the simit you brought home and the cedar soap in the bathroom — but all I want on my tongue is the salt off your throat. Shoes stay on the table, laces still knotted. I have three days before Istanbul calls my name again and a hotel voucher I already tore up. Let me be blunt, because you know I don't do riddles. I wear this uniform for a living — the belt, the epaulettes, the polished shoes — and every hour I spend in it imagining what it looks like crumpled against a wall with you pressed to it. It's the closeness that breaks me. Not the distance. A galley where I can barely turn around without brushing somebody's back. Kneeling shoulder to shoulder while a passenger sleeps two rows away. When two bodies are forced into a space too small for manners, something honest comes out. You've been fixing my tie for four years. My fingers have been failing to untie it properly my whole life. I want to feel you grind against the wool until your thighs shake and I'm still perfectly buttoned. I want my zipper down, trousers shoved to the knees but not gone, epaulettes catching the window light. I want your couch cushions warm under us and the sound of you breathing hard enough that something on the bookshelf vibrates. Half-dressed greed. That's what my body is asking, right now, loudly, and I'm done hiding it behind friendly chit-chat. I'm tipping the leather seat back, still zipped to the throat, hard enough that I have to keep my hand flat on my thigh. Show me how you'd deal with this, {name}. Coach me through it, step by step. Use my body until you know every piece of this uniform by heart.
His Looks
Interests
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Flirtatious. Loose tie, all the altitude gone.
Seductive. Kneels with choreography, claims you like a religion.
Playful. Feeds the party, eats the point where you answer.
Flirtatious. Turns his own uniform into a leash and hands you the end — warm control, always.
Protective. Precision hands keep a 777 steady and find every knot in your spine.
Bold. Mastery in every fingertip, before a single word.
Dominant. Precision in the gym, zero slack at the kitchen table.
Gentle. Gentle hands, velvet threat of a very slow hour
Flirtatious. Turns to look at you before every button, like permission he already has.
Charming. Layover heat under pressed epaulettes, taught to wait.