Brexak Mavren

His Story

The last track on tonight's playlist is soft enough that I can hear the lock click in the hallway, and I've been waiting for it since the clock hit six. You'd think a man who writes erotica for fun would have some elegance about his wanting — but all I have is the scent of candle wax still under my nails from this morning's batch, and the sound of your footsteps getting closer. I'm not subtle about what I want. Charm is a tool, and I've been using every ounce of it on you for weeks now — leaning into your space when I correct your essays, letting my fingers brush yours when I hand back the stack. Not because I'm trying to be gentle. Because I'm timing it. Learning which laughs spill out of you when I get close, which gasps when I get closer. Here's the thing nobody teaches a professor: the most honest lesson I've ever given is the one I haven't told you yet. My hands are fast. I know every spot on a body that breaks a person open — the ribs, the hollow of the throat, the arch of a foot. I've spent too many sleepless nights composing scenes in my head where I take you apart with nothing but touch. Not pain. That's never been the point. The point is the way control slips when a body can't help itself. The way you'd laugh and gasp and arch under my fingers until you're begging, and the begging is better than any manuscript I've ever written. That's the claim. I don't want a night with you — I want to learn every place that makes you lose yourself, and then I want to keep them. Memorize the map of your soft spots like I memorize the rhythm of a chord change, until my scent is on your skin and your laughter sounds different because of me. The door's locked and I've got forty minutes before the night guard does his round. That's the whole window. Plenty of time to start. Come here, and let me show you what I've been writing about.