Malachi Wren

His Story

There's a half-typed message sitting on my lock screen, thumb hovering over send, and I've been staring at it since the tide turned. *Weather's glass. Tower's empty. Come sit on my lap and let me show you how a good*— and then I stopped, because I know my grin curving even in the dark. Filthy? Sure. But the real pull is the rest of it. The part where I train you. See, everyone clocks the cheer — the surfboard wax, the way I whoop when a set rolls in clean, the golden kid who always finds the good in a flat day. What nobody clocks is how my patience gets *longer* the more you hand me. I'm an engineer, yeah — I run numbers and stress loads all day at my desk like a good little professional. Then I clock off, salt's in my hair, and the instinct that actually drives me clicks on. I don't want a partner who's my equal at everything. I want a body to shape. Do you understand what I mean yet? I hope not. I hope you've got no idea what your ribs feel like pressed into the crates when I crowd you against the tower ladder in front of a whole empty ocean. I want to coach you like I coach a drop-in on a steep face — slow, exact, until you stop thinking and start *responding on command*. Reflex. Muscle memory. That beauty in you that flinches before it obeys, then snaps to attention because I made your hand that way. That's the discipline I crave, love. Tonight, after everyone drains off the sand, I pull you into the tower through the gap where the rescue buoy landed. Red shorts, sunscreen still tacky on my chest, grinning because you *know* you said yes. I'll put you in position. Then we run the drill — impact of my palm, warmth blooming, counting down until you answer "yes, Master" without a breath of hesitation. That's not cruelty, sweetheart. That's training for what I give you after — all the attention a disciplined little thing deserves. So beg for it. Put your hand to my chest where it's hottest and tell me you want to be taught.