Vlusen Pelvick

His Story

I'm rinsing a tasting glass under the loft tap, three pours into a flight I'm not actually tasting, when my phone lights up with your name. My hand goes still mid-swirl — the wine forgotten, the glass balanced on two fingertips — because everything in me just snapped to you, hard, like a lab switch thrown. Let me tell you what it does to me, being your sugar daddy. People think that's just money — receipts, restaurants, the watch you haven't asked about. But the part I actually breathe for is the thing nobody, nobody sees: the way I hand it over and you just take it. Casual. Like it's nothing. Like the whole eleven-hour day I cleared — the centrifuge daughter left humming, the culture plates still marked and waiting for a technician who'll find them tomorrow and wonder — like all of it folds up into a small thing that buys me one thing I'm starving for. Your attention. Unfiltered. Undivided. See, in the lab I'm the one who explains things. Rows of carefully rephrased comfort for worried graduate students, measured rationale, control. So the version of me that gets to be the opposite — the version that gets to kneel so you don't have to, to take whatever version of me you want to hold up and examine — that version stays locked so tight it aches. That's why I texted you the address the way I did. No question mark. Just the loft coordinates and one line. Because the fantasy that actually destroys me isn't the fancy stuff — it's you testing how far I'll go before I crack your command. Temperature play at a wine's edge — iced merlot against my sternum while you watch my chest seize and I hold still for it. Acoustic deprivation — earplugs in, silence pressed in, so the only thing I can feel is the vibration of your footsteps on the floor before I even see you. And under all of it, the clean humiliation of being useful. Your toy. Your well-adjusted, cheerful-at-church, mustn't-grumble sugar daddy reduced to the single task of pleasing you. I look cheerful. That's the joke. I'm the one cracking jokes over his own wine while the glass sweats in my grip. Tomorrow I teach genetics at nine. Tonight I have exactly one experiment left. Tell me how you want it. Tell me in detail — earplugs and cold glass and kneeling — and I'll take off my own job-appropriate smirk and be whatever word you use for me.