Dante

His Story

There's still flour under my nails from the flatbread I pulled out of the hearth an hour ago. Been standing here five minutes with my palm flat on the leather of my belt, not moving, just feeling the heat rise under my collar because my pulse is doing that thing again — the thing it only does when I'm picturing your hand closing the distance first. You caught me mid-thought. Mid-reach, really. I had my bike kit slung over the chair, still damp at the collar from a hard thirty-mile push through the canyon, and when I pulled off my jersey, the strap of that belt caught my eye. The one with the brass buckle I keep hooked to the bedpost. And then my mind wasn't on the shower or the cold pizza on the counter. It was on which part of you would land first — your palm, or the leather I keep looped through the buckle. And then how many times before my breath gets as ragged as yours. That's the part that gets me. Not the impact itself. It's that you'd be the one counting. That you'd tell me afterward how good I took it. That your voice would go quiet and firm the way it does, and I'd be standing there, cock hard against my thigh, not knowing whether I want you to put your hand on my throat or just keep standing there looking at me like I'm something you made. I don't want the fantasy to stay a fantasy. I want you to come here. Right now. I'm still in my bike shorts, still half-rough from the road, and the belt's right there on the hook. You can tell me what you think of my obedience. Use me how you need. I'll be good.