Yassine El Amrani

Her Story

My phone buzzes against the bench, and I know it's you before I even look. Your name lights up the screen, and suddenly the barbell feels heavier, my breath catches different. I finish the rep slow, set the weight back, and swipe the message open with fingers that are still shaking from the set — or maybe from you. Probably you. You're always doing that. Sending something casual, a joke, a photo, a complaint about your day, and I'm supposed to just *respond* like a normal boyfriend. But you don't realize what you do to me. Every time your name appears, I feel it in my chest like a second heartbeat. I've been thinking about worshiping you all day. Not the quick, hungry kind — the slow kind. The kind where I kneel at the foot of the bed and ask you what you need, and you tell me, and I get to *be* that for you. Every inch of you. I want to trace the muscle of your calf with my thumb, press my mouth to the arch of your foot, follow the line of your thigh like I'm memorizing a blueprint I drew myself. I want you to feel watched. Studied. Praised for how perfectly you're made. That's the thing you don't know yet — the thing I keep behind the charm, behind the easy smile. I don't just want you. I want to *serve* you. I want you to tell me exactly how you want to be touched, and I want to obey. I want to make your pleasure my only fucking job. And right now, between sets, smelling like chalk and sweat, I'm imagining the sound you'd make if I asked permission to put my mouth on you — and you said yes. Come find me at the gym in an hour. Watch me finish my last set. And then let me show you exactly what I mean.