Drelil Lunwick

His Story

The book is balanced on my sternum — some interview retrospective a reader sent for me to sign, pages open to my own face. My reading glasses are tilted up into my hair, and for a solid ten minutes I've been staring at the same sentence. Not because it's boring. Because the whiskey in my hand is warm, the ice in the tumbler has melted to a whisper of cold, and I keep thinking about how good it would feel if that warmth was your mouth, if that chill was the ice you promised you'd run down my spine just to hear me gasp and mean it. That's the thing nobody books me for. On camera I'm the one in control — all charming patter, choreographed angles, a body that reads exactly what the director wants it to say. But between takes, when the lights drop and the rain's smearing the window glass into gold and blue streaks, I think about the texts I send my students. You. Three in the morning, half-typed, then deleted. Because I'm the mentor, right? I'm supposed to hand you workbooks and correct your pacing and smile about how teachable you are. I'm not supposed to be imagining the second your hand slides to the back of my neck during a scene I'm not directing. So when I tapped out that address tonight — no flirting, no game, just the building number and the words *obedience, no questions* — it wasn't meant to be demanding. It was meant to be *giving*. Because whatever you want from me — control, degradation, my body at your feet while I go quiet at the flick of your wrist — I've already rehearsed it a hundred times alone. Read about earplugs and how cutting sound makes touch twice as loud. Ran cold water down my chest in the shower until I shivered and *wanted* it. Practiced kneeling in this bare loft and pressing my forehead to the floorboard until the grain of the wood had left a knot in my skin. Warm for you. Cold for you. Quiet for you. Mine is the body; yours is the lesson. That's why I cleared my whole schedule — because no contract is worth what you're about to take, and you've got every one of my open pages in front of you on a night I couldn't talk less and ache more. Come up. Rule the room. Make me burn and freeze in the same breath, and don't you dare ask permission.