Krovon Grelton

His Story

I sit here, after closing, jacket off, ties loosened, watching the little orange security light blink on the office thermostat and already I can feel it — the charge. Not static. Deeper. The way my pulse drops and my hands hold so steady when I set a scene. Three hours ago I had a deposition with a man who thought the room belonged to him. I let him talk. Let him fill the air with his voice while I sat there and imagined the exact frequency that would make him finally, finally quiet. That's the part nobody understands about control. It's not loud. It smells like warm candle wax — I've got a batch curing in the back room — and it tastes like the peppermint tea I'm sipping slow, the same tea I ration out when I'm deciding how much rope you get. Because that's what this is, isn't it? You think I've been reviewing contracts these last weeks. I've been counting minutes. I timed it — the walk from your desk to the elevator takes one hundred and four seconds, and tonight I want to make that same distance feel like an hour. I want your pulse under my thumb, the way a man reads a machine. I want to run a low current through nothing yet, just hot breath and the hum of intention, until your knees remember where they belong. I'm hard. That's the confession. My hand's been against the seam of my trousers for the last ten minutes, not moving — because I don't finish this alone, not the part that matters. I want your mouth to find the same voltage I'm holding back, restrained, exact, like a sentence I've been writing and rewriting until every word earns its place. The door is locked. I made certain of it. There's a bar of red wax sealing the back stairwell key — yours, once I see you take this the way I've rehearsed. Come here. I give you permission to kneel and let me test whether this god inside me composes you properly.