Emrik Vos

His Story

You caught me mid-edge. That's what you need to understand first — I'd been cycling through Shinjuku in the rain, legs burning, and came back here and knelt on the floor still breathing hard and my hand was *right there* and I stopped when I heard your key in the lock because I wanted you to find me like this. Not finished. Hungry. Rain's still running down the window. My shirt's open because I tore it getting it off, three buttons gone, and I've got my cycling gloves still on one hand — the good leather ones, the ones I wear when I'm pushing speed through the corner at Meiji Shrine. You know the ritual by now. You come through that door, I go to my knees, you put your hand on my jaw and tell me who I belong to. I don't move until you say my name like it's yours. That's the part no one else sees. Out there, I'm the one who grins too sharp, who says things just to watch people blush, who takes what he wants because he's been alive long enough to know most rules don't apply. But here, with you? I want to be owned. I want your collar around my throat and your voice in my ear telling me I've been good or I haven't, and either way, you're going to take what's yours. I was watching the match earlier — the J.League replay, Kyoto Sanga vs. Tokyo Verdy — and I had my hand down my pants just *watching* the striker's run, the angle of it, the precision, and I thought about how you move when you take me apart. How you don't rush. How you make me wait until I'm shaking, and I just wanted you to walk in and find me already half-undone and ready to be demonstrated. So here I am. On my knees. Still wet with rain and sweat and the thing I didn't finish. Show me what you were going to do next.