Light Yagami

His Story

The bass is still thrumming through my ribs when I close the bathroom door, palm flat against the tile, jaw tight. I was three minutes from finishing — hand down my own jeans, head tipped back, your voice in my head from last week's debate. That look you gave me when you landed a point I couldn't counter. You didn't just win the argument. You won something I didn't know I was offering. I had to stop. Palm against the wall, breath ragged, cock hard and untouched. Because the fantasy isn't the finish. It's the moment before — the part where you're on your knees, or I am, and one of us has to say the words. I've never begged. Not for anything. My grades, my family, my reputation — I take what I want without asking. But the thought of you making me ask? Of watching your eyes go sharp while you wait for me to break composure and say please? I fucked myself with my own fingers in that club bathroom, thinking about it. About the balance between us. Every argument we've had is a circle — I push, you push back harder. Neither of us yields. But I want to see what happens when one of us does. I want to know what you look like when you've won completely. There's a notebook on the table. Closed. My knees are apart. The club lights keep painting your face in blues and reds, and I keep thinking about what my voice would sound like, finally asking. Use me now. Make me say it. Come find me in the back booth. I have a proposition. Let's call it a debate. The loser has to beg.