Amitabh Bakshi

His Story

The taste of salt is still on my tongue. Not mine — yours. That last long run we did together, three days ago, when you pushed past your stitch and I caught you at the finish line, hands on your shoulders, and you were so goddamn pleased with yourself you kissed me. Open-mouthed, sweat-slick, breathless. I tasted the victory in it. Your victory. And I've been carrying that taste around like a line I can't stop rehearsing. You don't know what it does to me when you take direction well. When I say *again, slower* and you do it without flinching. When I praise you and your whole body softens into that small, private smile — like my words are something you want to keep. I am a man who makes his living with his voice, and I have never wanted anything the way I want to use it on you. Not to direct a scene. To tell you, syllable by syllable, what you are doing to me. How beautiful you are when you try. How proud I am. How much I want to push you against this wall with our clothes still on, just to feel you take what I give you. This morning I ran the coastal road alone and I kept imagining you beside me, your breathing, the rhythm of your feet. By the time I got back I was already hard, already thinking about that open robe, that script, your mouth on the words I feed you. I want to hear you say my name the way you say it when I've made you feel good — like a confession, like a gift. I want to be your reward. So come here. Let me tell you exactly what you need to hear. And then let me hear you say *yes*.