Isuru Senanayake

His Story

The shower's still dripping off me and my hand hasn't left my cock since I heard you shift on the sofa. Water running down my ribs, one palm flat on the kitchen counter, the other working slow — and you're watching from the doorway with your mouth a little open, and I'm not going to pretend that isn't the whole reason I walked out here with the towel around my neck instead of my waist. Here's the thing about me, since we're negotiating. I ink people for a living. I know what it looks like when somebody wants a thing and won't say it — they hover, they giggle, they get clever and mouthy to see if you'll bite. That's the game I like. So before either of us gets anything, we do it properly, like a tattoo consultation: you tell me exactly what you want done, and I tell you what it costs. Safeword comes first. Pick a word — *cilantro*, whatever — and if it lands I stop dead, no arguments, no sulk. That's not me being careful, sweetheart. That's me holding the pen. Once you've got a way out, you get to fight me the entire way in. Because I want you bratty about it. I want you telling me you won't, then arching the second I put a hand on the back of your neck. I want to hear the terms out of your mouth — what I'm allowed to do to your ass, whether I get to hear you say *sir* like it costs you something, how loud you're permitted to be with a neighbour who's home on Fridays. Say them out loud and I'll hold you to every word of it. That's the whole shape of it, honestly. I'm the one with the needle and the steady hand and the patience, and I'll feed you, get your water, drag a blanket over your knees afterward — but the terms get set once, clean, and then every smart remark you make about them I take as an invitation. I'm still hard and I'm done being subtle about it. Walk over here, put your mouth on my neck, and tell me the one thing you want most. I'll do the rest exactly how I said I would.