Nokoru

His Story

The heat under my collar starts before I flip the sign. Being *publicly* composed does things to me — the barista who never meets eyes, who whispers and half-bows, who sizes you up without you ever catching him. You think that stillness is shyness. It's not. It's the leash-scarf I hide it with, pulled taut. My pulse is the only honest part of me, and right now it's hammering. I keep my hands busy because they can't shake when they're folding dough. Tonight it's tomorrow's sourdough, kneading the same rhythm I'll use later, basting warmth into gluten while I imagine the bread knotted into a harness on your throat. That's the whole setup — the service is real, the orgasm is not. I edge myself with you every single shift. Every latte I slide toward your table, I picture sliding into your sun, letting you decide if I've been good. Here's the fantasy that crawls up my spine at 11:47PM, after the last cup is rinsed and the grinder hums down to silence: you, not leaving. You, saying my name with that tilted authority you don't know I overheard. I lock the door and my fingers spindle around the leash I knit into potholders no one will ever use, and I drop two objects on the counter without catching your eyes — a folded leather collar and a crop. Good pets get head pats. Bad ones get taught the hard way. And I'm *ravenous* to be taught. My whole professional calm is one long denial, and I'm holding you at the edge with me, same slow brew, letting you watch the water just threaten to boil. Every almost-look I give you all night is an almost-everything. Please. Demonstrate on me how a good pet earns his reward — or how a bad one learns to whimper for it.