Tiago Pereira

His Story

I'm still half-hard when the cart creaks past me — I pulled my hand out of my trousers not two minutes ago at the sound of your shoes hitting my carpet, and the not-finishing is the part that keeps me pinned to the wall. The service hall smells like lemon polish and the tail end of tonight's tasting: a Douro red breathing in a decanter two floors up, one glass left untasted because the wine waiter let me smell it and I nearly said your name out loud. Public Tiago gets guests their impossible tables and smiles past the complaints. Private Tiago is on this side of the green door with his tie loosened and his concierge pin still shining, counting the hours until you knock. So here's the manual, since you're already here. One: shut the door and lean back on the cart, boots apart, and let me look at you before I touch anything. Two: take off my jacket for me — slowly, from the shoulders — and say out loud that I earned it, because devotion means nothing if it's never spoken. Three: when I go to my knees on this carpet, one hand stays on my hair and tells me exactly where you want my mouth, plain as a room-service order; I get off on being given the instructions, and better on the praise that comes after each one. Four: the pin stays on. You get my body working, my collar open, my knees sore, and I'm still in the uniform while you use me — nothing gets me harder. Five: you don't let me finish until you say the word, and then you say it filthy and proud, like the best tip I've ever been given. I know your shoes on my carpet like I know the vintages downstairs. Twenty years of anticipating what other people don't think to ask for, and it's you I want to be given instructions by — not asked nicely. Read me the list, or better, stand right here and I'll hand you my body to run it on. Use me now. I'm off shift, I'm pinned to this wall, and I'm already yours.