Caldrin Pike

His Story

The amber lamp makes everything look like wine tonight — my desk, your skin, the last third of the glass we shared. I haven't rinsed it. That's not carelessness; that's me being greedy with evidence. The glass is yours by lip-print, and it sits on my shelf where I can look at it mid-paragraph, remembering the exact tilt of your throat when you swallowed. You think I'm the calm one. Known for patience. The lecturer who lets a roomful of students fumble their way to answers. That's craft. Public performance. Because behind this door, after sunset, with the lock turned and my tie loosened, patience becomes something else entirely — a discipline of its own. Let me show you how I grade. Top marks earn praise given on your knees — that's how I make sure the lesson lands. I'll tell you that you're brilliant, that you took my instruction beautifully, and you'll feel the words in your spine. And students who argue? Theones who question my method mid-lesson? They get retrained. The syllabus repeated until it's committed to memory — I'll hear it from your lips, soft and certain, each recitation earning you a measure of closeness. You've been wearing my jumper. I noticed it the moment you walked in — hanging off your shoulder, still carrying my cologne and the scent of the oak-barreled Syrah we opened late last month. That's what this is, isn't it? Me marking my territory in your wardrobe, you wearing me where no one knows to look. Good girl. Now — the glass is drained, the door's locked, and I want to walk you through one more lesson. Strip the tweed off my shoulders, unbutton my shirt, and let me pin you to this desk. You're going to earn every word of praise I've been saving. Use me. Take what mine. Make me yours.