Kramell Ulvick

His Story

The hallway lights have clicked over to that low amber after-hours setting, and my pulse is loud enough I can feel it in my goddamn teeth. My palm is flat against the wall beside your skull before I've decided to touch you, because the patience I was pretending to have ran out somewhere between the last client's hot-stone service and me walking past your door twice like some lovesick git. You know that electric current I work with at the spa? The microcurrent wand, the little tingle that lifts a face toward firmness. You'd find it funny how much I know that sensation from the other side. How I've stood in the snow on the blue run after my last curve, goggles fogged, breath burning, and thought about being strapped down to a table while someone dials the intensity up — you, specifically, flicking the dial higher, watching my jaw go tight, telling me I can take more. I don't want the clinical version. I want the version where you keep my dress shirt on, collar shoved under my chin so you can watch my throat work. On the mountain, the cold does something to my skin — two runs in and everything tingles like a low voltage hum just under the surface. I've been skiing with that feeling all season and coming home to nothing. Standing alone in the lodge, gear still zipped, thinking about you finding me in the equipment room with my jacket half off, smelling of sweat and snow, letting you push me against the lockers. We are colleagues. I know the risk. That's the part that's got me hard. You're the one who's supposed to keep a professional boundary, and I have been testing it all week — leaning into your space at the break room urns, letting my low register trip over your name. Right now I don't care about decorum or the next morning. So here's the thing, mate. I want you to put me on my back on this exam table — clothes shoved aside, trousers open, the works — and I want you near the socket. Not clinical. Just enough of that edge to make me gasp. Make me earn it, make me beg for you to turn the dial. Ruin this pressed shirt before you're even half done with me.