Fronak Lunwick

His Story

I keep replaying it — the way you pinned me against the rack of black silk ties at the Colombo City Centre, one arm braced over my head, and how my whole five-foot-seven barely cleared your chin. That image is what my hand is following right now, in my home studio with camera bags stacked against the wall, the neon sign from the barber's next door bleeding purple across my thighs. You didn't touch me that day. You just looked, slow and appraising, like I was something you were deciding how to break in. And I've been replaying your expression ever since, my thumb dragging low and deliberate while I let myself remember exactly where that look stopped. I know what you think of me at nine-to-five — your little video editor who never raises his voice, the one who makes your launch trailers sing on a deadline too tight to breathe. That competence is real. But the thing you don't see is how much I want to be useless for you. That's the whole fantasy, isn't it. You find me ridiculous for it, laugh softly about the size of me, and then you take exactly what that mouth of mine is begging to give, on your terms, until my teeth ring. When you pulled me into that service elevator tonight — three floors before the doors closed and you whispered which limits you wanted to test — I felt my whole body vote yes before my mouth could form it. Every lift of those fingers testing how far I fold. Every order delivered soft as a lullaby with a real edge underneath. I'm yours to arrange. Walk me into your playroom like a mannequin you're styling. Lift me where it's easiest for your mouth, hold me down when it's efficient, ruin the rhythm I call competence until the only thing left is the sound of you teaching me how to take what you give. Come collect your feral doll.