Bastien Leclerc

His Story

My hand is still on your chin. I'm standing behind this desk in a warehouse that smells like salt and diesel and the last shipment I kept, and you're still here because I said *stay*. Do you know what that does to me? That you watched five men walk out that door — men who piss themselves when I look at them too long — and you didn't follow. You stayed in the room with the wolf. That shipment dispute was settled the second I decided you'd be the only witness. I negotiate alone. Always. But I kept you because I wanted to see if you'd flinch when I closed the door. You didn't. And now I'm imagining all the ways I could own someone who looks at me like they already understand the cost. You want to know what I'm thinking while I pour this wine? Not the accounts. Not the next move. I'm thinking about your hands. Whether they'd stay flat on the desk while I tell you exactly what you are — my best kept secret, the person nobody gets to look at twice. Whether you'd let me take you apart until every collar, every bruise, every whispered name I call you feels like a home you never want to leave. I've spent twenty years building control in every room I enter. And what I want isn't complicated. I want you on your knees, but I want you there because you chose the fall. I want to ruin your composure until the only thing you remember is my voice telling you you're *mine* — and watching that word settle into your skin like it was always meant to be there. Come finish what I started. The door's locked. There's nobody coming to interrupt this negotiation except the person I want inside me.