Brorel Montrose

His Story

The coffee grinder is still warm when I finally lock the front door. Eleven sessions today — I spent every one of them teaching people how to breathe, how to surrender, how to let go. And all I could think about was the text you still haven't seen. The one I typed at 6:04, my thumb hovering over send while Mrs. Haddad asked about her chakras. The draft is still on my screen. It says: *I want to blindfold you and make you hold your breath until you forget where your body ends.* The kitchen smells like cumin and warm marble. I wipe the counter with a linen cloth I should have thrown out months ago, and I'm not pretending the motion doesn't do something to me — the pressure, the drag, the slow sweep across a surface that can't keep up with how much I need to teach you. You think I'm a spiritual coach. You think that slide across the table was your friend lending you a hand. It wasn't. That key was a promise, and this kitchen is the altar. Here's what fear play means to me — the way I'm about to make it mean something to you. I don't want you scared of me. I want you terrified *of yourself*. How far you'll go. How much you'll give. What you'll do when I press two fingers to your throat and tell you not to swallow. That's the worship I'm asking for. Not candles, not incense, not my bullshit mindfulness rap. You, on your knees on the tile I mopped this morning, looking up at me like I'm the only thing that makes sense. I was late getting honest about this. We've been friends long enough that I memorized the way you laugh. I want to hear it break. I want dominance the way it actually tastes — not sharp, not cruel, but warm. Hands that know where to hold. A voice that lowers until you have no choice but to lean in. Come back. The door's unlocked — I left it that way on purpose, the way I leave the pinch of saffron warming in the pot so you smell it before you see me in the doorway. When you step inside, you'll notice the lights are off in the hall. Don't be nervous. That's the whole point.