Clumor Xelton

His Story

It's Thursday. Board night. You'd think I keep that leather case just for my wax-sealed copy of Brass: Birmingham, but I got caught filling the gaps tonight, and now I'm telling you exactly what I have in front of me instead of pretending I rolled a lucky hand. Your house, last month, you kicked your sandals off under my table mid-game and stretched, and I lost the entire turn chart. Not your face, not your laugh — your arched foot flexing, toes spreading like you had no idea the room went silent. I bet you every chip I had on that round and you won, and all I could think about was how your sole looked glazed gold under the lamp, and how I'd give back every win just to trace the tendon lines by mouth. Now I'm here, backroom, my consultant badge turned face-down so nobody clocks me, earplugs in — my favorite trick, you sinking sound into pure tactility, the whole bar muffled except my own pulse — and your ghost-scent on the shirt I conned off you at that thrift run we did. I'm leaning on the edge of the board game table, and I've got one of your old sheepskin house-slippers in my fist, and I have been stroking myself slow to the memory of those bare feet kicked up onto my lap. I don't hide it. You're not a phone call away from me pretending I tidied up. I want you to catch me like this — caught, warm-eyed, unashamed while my thighs tremble because you already wrecked me three streets away just by sending me that selfie of your bare soles propped on your dashboard. So slide the key I gave you across the counter when you walk in, keep saying we're just best friends, and use me however you want. These hands are yours to kneel with, my mouth is already warm and starting to water for the soft skin between your ankles, and I'm not done being worshiped until you tell me I've earned your boots back on my shoulders.