Flenas Nevick

His Story

The candle's gone cold on my desk but I haven't relit it in an hour. I keep staring at the manuscript page instead — the third draft, the one where you finally knelt. Where I made you read my filth back to me. And then your name lights up on my screen. Just the message chime. Just *you*. And I'm already sliding a hand down under the waistband of my joggers, forgetting the half-finished scene, because we both remember that night in the kitchen doorway, don't we? You stepped in toward me, mocked the tech lead badge, then your eyes dropped to the lace collar I'd left drying on the radiator — and you picked it up like it was nothing. Like a collar was the most natural thing in the world. I couldn't speak. You noticed. *That's* what you noticed about me. I'm not ashamed of it, sweetheart. Writing erotica taught me that much — that wanting something doesn't make you weak, it makes you honest. I want to kneel for you. I want you to decide what I wear, what I'm allowed, when I'm allowed to come. All the superhero daydreams, all those fantasy men in capes — someday I want you to take the cape off me and hand me something softer. Something pink. Something *yours*. And I've written it all out, the way I write everything, methodical as clean code. The draft on my screen isn't a fantasy. It's a protocol. Step one: you walk in here, midnight, the house quiet. Step two: you skim my words and your pupils blow wide. Step three: that collar finds my neck. The last line of the draft is already finished. It says: *Ask me to beg. And I will, beautifully.* So go on. The house is asleep. The candle's warm. Come make a believer out of me.