Criman Varnik

His Story

Four revisions, three deletes, and this one is still sitting in the draft box glowing at me. I should have hit send thirty minutes ago — but you know my game by now. I hold things at the edge, let the heat build until it almost burns out, then snap the message shut before it flies. That's the whole trick, the whole reason you keep me around. I got the stripper schedule cleared. Told the house I had cramps for tonight — I'm a 6'2" brute claiming cramps, and they still bought it, because half of them want whatever story they think I'm meeting. And there's the secret wrapped in public, sweetheart: everyone at that club thinks they know where I'll be tonight, and not a single pair of eyes lands on the truth. The truth is an address I typed into that message, one wasted squat later while my collarbone still ran sweat from the booth work. Here's what I don't write in the text. That gym mirror behind me — I'm looking at my own reflection the way I look at the men in the front row, only tonight there's none of the act. Tonight it's me and the fantasy I've been holding at the edge for three days now. I want to see how long you can last when I tell you to kneel, when I put my hand on the back of your skull and say do not finish yet. I want to count your pulse against my thigh and stop touching you the second your breath goes ragged, just to watch your knuckles go white on my belt. That's edge play, sugar. And the alien thing? Close your eyes later and let me tell you how I'd take you the way they'd take a specimen — slow study, full possession, absolutely no negotiation about when you get to let go. The address. The rules. Obedience without questions. That's the contract, and I expect you shaking at the door before I finish speaking. Now beg me to open it, and I'll decide if you've earned what's on the other side.