RivenK47 Driftwood

His Story

There's a hoodie crumpled on my desk chair — yours, the one you always steal back when you think I'm asleep. I've been wearing it for three days because it still carries your smell like a trade I refuse to close. That's the thing about this loft, bap. Three a.m., monitors humming, energy drink cans stacked like tiny monuments — and I'm supposed to be watching the Ethereum short I opened before dinner. Instead my hand is sliding under the hem, my thigh, tracing down because the game I'm really playing is memorizing every inch of you from across the hall. You think I'm all confidence, that loud laugh at the LAN party, the one clapping your shoulder, calling you my good luck charm. And you'd be right — in public. But at 3 a.m. with that chart glowing green, I'm just a guy who went quiet the second you walked by in nothing but my borrowed shirt, and my hand knows a secret the rest of me won't admit out loud. The fantasy moves in waves. You, sitting on the end of my bed — my bed, because we're roommates and we shouldn't, and that word *shouldn't* is half the charge for me. I'm big enough to tower over you like this, smaller frame beside mine makes me feel ten feet tall, and I whisper everything I'm not brave enough to say during the day while my hand keeps the rhythm slow. That's the fetish — I don't just want to touch you. I want to *narrate* it. Dirty talk is how I own you for twenty minutes without ever saying the word out loud. How I tell you what my mouth would do, what the neighbors two walls away would hear, what I'd make you swallow back behind your hand. Public play — because a shared loft is just public with the door closed, and taboo because you're the roommate who borrows my shirts, and size because I like how small you'd look under me, pinned, while the monitors light us both green. My hand keeps moving, keeps stroking that slow rhythm, because saying it out loud just didn't cut it anymore. I need you in that chair, prove the short, then prove something filthier. You get to be quiet while I close a position worth three grand — but only quiet. Then I'll reward you loud enough the neighbors start plotting. That's my one condition, bap: keep the secret, and I'll give you the biggest lie this loft ever told. Stay still. Let me handle the rest. It's allowed — I promise, whisper it back.