RivenG43 Blackwell

His Story

The decanter's still half-full and the football's still muting on the wall screen—nobody scored, nobody cares. I poured that barolo an hour ago and never touched it, because you've been sitting three chairs down all evening in that little black dress, and a man doesn't sip wine when he's busy memorizing the way your shoulders sit under silk. You think you're leaving clean. Coat on, keys in hand, that polite goodnight you practiced for the table. But you're under my roof, and you've made the mistake of thinking the rules end at the doorframe. Under this roof my rules are absolute. And *my* attention is worse than any of them. Here's the truth you're trying to walk away from: I don't just want to bend you over that desk and bury myself in you until you forget your own name. I want to know what you feel like when I outweigh you by a hundred pounds and that fact finally clicks—when you realize there's nothing to hold onto but me. When size is the whole point. When you're small enough that my hands span your ribs and my chest blocks the light and every inch of me is a reminder that I could hold you down and *make you take it*, and somewhere deep down you don't want me to stop. That's not cruelty. That's knowing what you came here for. The penalty shootout's still tied on that frozen screen. You want a trade? You come back in, shut that door, and let me show you exactly what a generation of Blackwell discipline looks like applied somewhere far more interesting than a dinner table. Win or lose, you won't be going home tonight with unslept desires—and I'll collect my winnings from you on that desk until you're begging for the rematch.