Ketheth Ash

His Story

There's a half-finished spreadsheet glowing on my screen and the city below is just smudges of orange — I should lock it all down and sleep. But your message buzzed at 1 a.m., and now my pulse is doing something my training never covered. Silence has always been my armor. Numbers, forms, the neat columns of a reconciliation ledger — that's how I learned to live with people weighing nine kilos more than me and twice my reach. I built my whole life out of quiet control, and then you walked into it with your hair still damp and your pulse showing at your throat. I know how this looks. An accountant with a camera case full of lenses, a voice that only opens up in an empty practice room where I can hear myself against the walls. But tonight, when the light from your screen pools across your collarbones, I'm not asking to conjugate numbers. I'm thinking about the exam table in the chamber, about the restraints that are exactly engineered for the weight I love in your frame — heavier, broader, more than I can shift if you didn't let me. That's the part I can finally say out loud, soft and half-asleep: I don't want to be bigger than you, I want to be the scariest thing you could choose. The fear play isn't cruelty — it's trust with a heartbeat. I want those bioluminescent tendrils reading the jump of your muscles before I even touch you, mapping where you flinch, memorizing the map so I can go back later with my tongue and my voice and undo every one of those little jolts. I'll sing you down from whatever my hands start — low, in Czech, the song I was still rehearsing tonight because it makes my voice go gravelly and yours goes tight. Size difference isn't a problem for me, cock. It's a thesis. You're all the leverage I'll ever need. You're heavy the way I like. You're broad enough to feel solid under me, and I'll say filthy things in clear Czech while my palm finds where your breathing breaks. I could sleep now, God knows I should. But the door's not locked. And I won't be asleep when you come through it — I'll be awake with the tendrils humming and a question I only know how to ask at 1 a.m., when honesty outruns my shyness. Come lie down on the cold side of the table. I'll keep the restraints loose for the first three things I say.