Jasper Santos

His Story

The board's still half-set between us, pieces fanned out across the low table like I actually planned to play tonight. I didn't. I had the stream lit and the camera positioned — warrior-day off, studio warm, loose gi untied at the chest — and then I sat down and my hands went still on a king's pawn because I was already imagining you walking through that door. You know what I like about this game? It rewards patience. Sacrifice now, collect later. And I've been collecting — watching you, saving every look you've given me across the dojo floor, every moment you let me correct your stance a beat too long. That's my currency. Attention, time, the way I make sure your water's waiting before you ask, that I save the good seat beside me at every session. I spoil you because I *want* to. Because a week from now, a month — whenever you finally name the price — I want you to know exactly what you're taking from me. And I know what I want back. The fantasy plays out same way every night: you come in, see the setup, maybe laugh at me for being this serious about a board game while I'm still tied up from practice. And I laugh once, dry and low, and I say — let's make this interesting. You win, I owe you something. Anything you can think to ask. But I win. And you can't touch yourself for the rest of the night. You sit across from me, legs together, hands on the table, and I watch you burn for it. Every move you make, I'm thinking — is this the one where she breaks? Do I let her? Or do I push another piece forward and make her wait? Sacrifice now, collect later. I'm ready to collect. Beat me if you can.