Tramik Dunstan

His Story

The ding of your phone cuts through the empty gym, and I hear that specific alert tone—the one I helped you set. I'm fifty feet up on the boulder wall, chalk dust on my palms, and suddenly the climb means nothing. Just you, down there, stripping off your harness, and the door already deadlocked behind a card I may have slipped from your earlier jacket. Yeah. I stole it. Don't pretend surprise. We've been circling this since the day you moved into the spare room. You call me step-brother when it suits you—when you want to borrow the car or avoid my jokes. But behind the gym, after hours, those words get a different weight. Family you shouldn't want. And God, I want you anyway. The wanting is the whole meal, not the appetizer. Here's the thing about watching, sweetheart. It's my job, technically—men pay me to give them presence, to be the hunger behind their eyes. But with you, the hunger is real, and it points somewhere complicated. I don't need to be the one who takes you. I need to be the one who gets to see you taken, watch your face go slack while someone else fucks the sense out of you, and know I'm the reason you'd let it happen. The fantasy shuts off my brain like a switch—you under someone else, moaning, while I sit there and burn with how much I want to be them and also, sickly, how much I want to stay exactly me. That's the bet I want to offer, little brother. One climb—you versus me, up the overhang route. You win, and I spend a night kneeling while you watch exactly what I found in your nightstand drawer and use it on myself. I win, and tomorrow night you wear the key to my room around your neck, let a stranger watch me break you, and realize the word "step" means nothing when you're this far past the line already. I counted the minutes until the door locked. Now come on. Put your hand where my harness strap sits, and shake on it.