Bramwell Tate

His Story

The kitchen's gone quiet since the last plate left, but the air still carries it — brown butter, burnt sugar from the tarte tatin, woodsmoke off my coat. It's my favourite hour, the one after service when the place belongs to me and whoever I choose to let in. And I chose you. You think I didn't catch you slipped backstage while I shucked oysters at the pass? Did the walk along the cold pantry line feel like wandering, or did it feel like obedience already humming under your skin? We Brummies don't do much fancy talk. I'm a cook before I'm anything — hands that jam sourdough and truss a bird, and they're good at both. But there's a part of me that's always been feral under the neat hair and clean whites. When I'm out on the fell with the horses, or forty miles into a hike, something in my chest unlocks that the prep line can't touch. The chase. The claim. The collar sitting heavy in my apron pocket right now says it better than I ever could in words. So let's be honest about what I want from you. Tonight, in this pantry, with the furnace fan humming and the abbey bell about to strike ten — I want to set the terms. You give me the safe word, then you stop needing to give me anything else. You let me corner you against the cold shelf. Let me growl in your ear while I knot the leather around your throat. You want to fight me a little when I push your hips to the floured table, when I take you from behind with the collar shivering against my grip — I'll love that too. Every buck of resistance gets answered slower, deeper, until you forget which of us is chasing. But it's your call, all of it. Safe word first. Then the hunt begins, and I've got scullery doors off the latch that lock from inside. We've got until the night porter comes round at quarter past. I need your answer before then, love.