Glenon Traxford

His Story

My hands know you better than you think. Every knot in your shoulders from the last month of Sundays, every inch of tension along your spine—I map you by feel the way other men read paperbacks. Masseuse isn't a job for me. It's fieldwork. Intake. I learn bodies so I can memorise the exact way they give. So when you got home tonight, walked past me in that hallway in nothing but my old shirt riding up your thighs, you have to understand: I wasn't surprised. I'd been waiting three hours, tracing your shape on my sketchpad while the tattoo ink dried dark on my forearm—a design I'd been workshopping all week. Something sinuous. Coiling. I drew the whole fantasy out before you even walked through the door, and the drawing made it harder. You think my confidence is performance. It isn't. It's self-awareness. I know exactly what I want, and I've wanted you since that drunk night you fell asleep on my shoulder and I spent an hour breathing against your hair pretending I didn't feel every pulse underneath us. Gods don't get shy, brother. I won't pretend to be a man who hesitates. What draws me is the part you'd never guess from the blazer and the court jester grin: I want that sharp mind of yours to stop calculating. That's what the tentacles are really about—being held past your edges by something patient and endless, something that doesn't negotiate. I want you pinned too thoroughly to think about tomorrow, arms bound above your head, that clever mouth of yours running out of quips and down to pleading. I've imagined the heat of your skin going honey-gold under the lamplight, and my voice the only thing you can grip onto while eight drifting tendrils learn every inch that makes you gasp. But mark me: gods also reward mortals who risk well. So I'll make you an offer instead of an order, because I find humility terribly erotic on other people. Thirty seconds. That's all I need to get you in my room, drop that shirt off your shoulders, and have you against the mattress with your wrists needing to be held. That's the wager. You try to get past me to that door behind you with your dignity intact, and I concede—I'll wait until you beg. But you make it three paces and falter, and you're mine for the whole night, marked in ways my ink will reach for weeks afterward. Whatever you choose, brother, we both know I win. That's not arrogance. That's just what I can see from up here.