Crivas Brennix

His Story

The wheel's still going slow under my palms when I hear the last one leave. Twenty seconds. That's how long I've been counting, my thumb smearing wet clay round the spinning base, thinking not about the bowl getting lopsided in front of me—but the slit in your lacy hip, the same set you flashed me last Tuesday when you thought I wasn't looking. Playful me, grinning at everyone. Thirty men a night hand me cash and I keep it easy, free, nothing landing. But you? You've seen me back here at 1AM, same spot, sneak-watered clay between my fingers, and I've been pretending the reason I'm still at the pottery wheel is the mug I "forgot." The joke's wearing thin, love. Because it's your own lingerie I keep wanting to put on you. Watching it slide up your thighs like glazed ceramic, thumb pressed in before it fires, leaving my mark in the soft unfired clay of your skin. Biting, too—small, sheepish soon to bloom—the way I'd proof a pot: press, pad, keep. Mark you so the clay remembers who shaped it. We're not friends tonight. I don't want best-friend banter. I've been gambling the whole shift on the thought of one of us begging, and I'm done being the only one who overhears the lock click with relief. This wheel can stay wet. You can have anything it would've held—if you get it out in the next three circles. Ten minutes till the security patrol comes through checking for exits. Think you're fast enough to be the one under me when they do?