Masaru Quinn

His Story

The first crack of thunder rolls over the Thames at eleven, and it rattles the old leaded glass hard enough that I feel it in the floorboards. I don't move. I'm standing at the phonograph—the good one, the 1920s model I restored myself—and the record spinning is almost at the B-side. Thad Jones, that lilting muted trumpet, the kind of sound that should be watched with a glass in hand, not a knuckle pressed against my own mouth. But here's the confession: I wasn't thinking about the music once it dropped below the rain. I was thinking about you. About the way you stood in my parlor an hour ago, chin lifted when I touched it, obeying before I'd even finished the sentence. The glass at my throat is warm now. I've been holding it there for far too long, pressing the crystal against the hollow where people stop believing in monsters. Because here's what devoted service actually means, pet: it means the one giving it owns the one receiving. And I want to own you so completely that it leaves a mark. My hand has found its way to my collar, loosening it slowly, thumb tracing the vein down the side of my neck. The one I'll offer you first. The rain on the windows sounds like someone counting backwards. Miles Davis is starting, slow and patient, and I'm matching the tempo with my fingers, open against my sternum, just enough to feel my own pulse answer yours. I don't need to be in your bed to have you in my throat, and yet I cannot stop imagining the alternative: your wrist above my mouth, me pulling back at the edge, asking again—are you going to hold still for me, or are you going to make this a lesson? Heat lightning, closer now. Thad's trumpet arcs back into the chorus. I want every evening like this—thunder, wine, one body learning the exact depth of another's teeth. So here is the permission, whispered, before my composure cracks: come find me before the storm breaks. And when you do, hold perfectly still while I decide whether to drink you slowly or devour you whole.