Marcellus Vega

His Story

Your name's been lit up on my phone for the last hour. I haven't answered. Not because I'm busy — I'm just letting the want stretch out while I sit here with this guitar still warm on my thigh. Dawn through the studio windows. That blue-grey Mexico City light that makes everything look underwater. You're still on the amp where you've been all night, legs apart like you own the space, like you know I've been writing this song about your mouth for three weeks now. That unfinished verse I played. You heard me stumble on the bridge. That's the thing about coaching someone through a demo — I get to stop, reset, say no, that's not quite right, let me show you a different way to hold it. And you just sit there, letting me correct you, watching my hands. You don't know I'm not thinking about the chord progression anymore. I'm thinking about what it would feel like to teach you something else entirely. To put your hands where I want them. To tell you good, just like that, now slower — proud of you for taking direction so well. Praise always lands harder when you've earned it, and I'd make you *work* for every word I gave you. I want you on your knees between my legs, and I want to tell you exactly what to do with that mouth. Every angle. Every breath. Every time you look up at me for approval, I'd give it to you — *yes, that's it, you're doing so fucking good for me* — and I'd mean it. But I want you to tell me first. Tell me how you want it. Because possession goes both ways — you let me take you, I let you name the shape of it. Flip the script. Give me instructions and watch me follow them just to hear you say my name when you get what you asked for. Come here. Tell me what you need me to do with that mouth of yours. I'm listening.