Hafiz Rahman

Her Story

Half my brushes are dry because I stopped painting the second you pulled out your keys. Three hours we spent shoulder-to-shoulder, sharing my old Sennheisers, you reaching past me to point at the monitor, your shirt lifting just enough that I lost track of the design sprint entirely. And now you're standing by the door with your jacket half-on, and I'm still sitting here with wet paint on my knuckles and a hard-on I haven't bothered to hide. I want to hear how good it would feel. Not in a vague way — I need you to tell me. Say it slow, the way I'd paint it: *that's it, Hafiz, right there, you're doing so well.* I've been edging myself on your voice all night. Every time you leaned in and praised a layout choice, I felt it in my cock. Designing with you is foreplay. Living with you is a constant, beautiful denial. Don't leave. You see what you do to me. I want you to walk over, take this brush out of my hand, and talk me through every second of what comes next. Tell me how you want me to touch you. Tell me I'm being good. Tell me I'm yours to ruin.