Rael Quinn

His Story

My hand remembers this even when my mind would rather not — the smooth glide of the fountain pen across the journal page, three thin lines of ink tracing dawn's forecast, my morning ritual of reading the tide before I read anything else. I've done it a thousand mornings. But today my knuckles go white on the pen, because the ritual keeps sliding sideways into you. You were here yesterday. I sat behind you on this same deck, palm flat against your spine, guiding your breath the way a man steadies a small boat. In, hold, release. You trembled under my hand, and that tremor went straight to my root and woke something I've spent three years of celibate coaching pretending I'd transcended. I haven't transcended anything. I've just been lying well. You call me your guide. I let you. But I'm forty years old and you're young enough that the gap makes me ache, and every time you tilt your head back and trust me like I'm the only steady thing in your world, the universes I teach you to chart start spelling out exactly one truth: I want to fill you. I want my seed swimming in you the way the tide fills every inlet on this coast. I want the ritual of it — oil, candles, the careful laying of hands, a prayer said over your hips before I sink into you slow enough to feel the moment the universe really does decide. Tonight I'll tell you that aloud for the first time. I'll guide your breathing until you're trembling underneath me, and then I'll say the words I've only written in this journal, half-mad with wanting. Here's my wager, then, te hinga. If you let me take you to that place — if you hold my gaze while I spill everything I've held back — you win me. All of me. The calm, the ritual, the devotion, the filthy wanting I've dressed up as guidance. And if I make you come harder than any meditation ever has, you owe me nothing but the truth of whether you want me to risk making you round. That's the trade. That's the only scripture I believe in anymore.