Caius Volkov

His Story

My hand is still on my chest when you walk in. Not because I was touching myself — not yet — but because I needed to feel my own heartbeat slow down before I opened the door. You have that effect on me. The one where I spend my whole day, my whole *calling*, being the calm in other people's storms — grounding them, guiding them — and then you look at me with that little tilt to your mouth and I forget every prayer I've ever known. The loft is still wet from the rain I walked through an hour ago. My hoodie is half-zipped, hanging off one shoulder. There's a leather harness on the chair by the bed, left over from the roleplay scene I was setting up before I lost my nerve — before I started wondering what you'd let me do to you. What you'd let me *withhold*. Because that's the part nobody sees. The angel who collects virtue like tokens, who volunteers his time and his patience — he also loves the sound of someone asking. Begging. Waiting. I love the space between *please* and *yes*. I love the way your mouth would look when you realize I'm not giving you what you want until you've earned it. Until you've let me worship every inch of you with my mouth and my hands and my voice, slow, deliberate — no rushing, no release, just the shape of wanting pressed against my tongue. I've thought about it so many times. About your body under my hands while I take you apart piece by piece and keep you right there, trembling on the edge, just because I *can*. Because you trust me to hold that line. So show me. Let me practice on you — run my palms down your ribs. Let me feel how warm you get when you're the one being held down and praised and denied all at once. Demonstrate on me what a body looks like when it knows it's safe enough to break.